A LITTLE GRAVE

I SIT by the window with Maud, my wife,
 Watching the drift of the wind and rain;
The tree-tops writhing like things of life,
And the sweep of the storm across the plain.

We strive to be merry.—O dull deceit
That cannot deceive; for well we know
That the mutual smile is a mutual cheat—
Our hearts are out in the soddened snow.

Out, where the arms of the oaks are tossed,
And a white stone faces the bitter west.
Where two little childish hands are crossed
In the cold wet clay, on a baby breast.

And it seems such a heartless thing to sit
In a cozy room, so pleasant and warm,
Watching the wraith-like shadows flit
O’er the little grave, in the driving storm.

We turn from the window, and strive to smile,
But the false light fades from the brimming eyes.
We strive for a subject that may beguile,
And our two white faces are two white lies.

Late, late in the night, when the silken curls
Are veiling an arm where the bright head rests,
I can feel the warmth of the dewy pearls,
And the weary rise of the snowy breast.

And once in a way a man may weep
At the mother sorrow that slumbers there,
As she murmurs a something in her sleep,
That is half a cradle-song, half a prayer.