decline we see you down the path, And run to meet you, and perhaps you smile, Or take us in your arms. Perhaps again You look at us, say nothing, are absorbed, Or chide us for our dirty frocks or faces. Of running wild without our meals You do not speak. Then in the house, seized with a sudden joy, After removing gloves and hat, you run, As with a winged descending flight, and cry, Half song, half exclamation, Seize one of us, Crush one of us with mad embraces, bite Ears of us in a rapture of affection.      "You shall have supper," then you say. The stove lids rattle, wood's poked in the fire, The kettle steams, pots boil, by seven o'clock We sit down to a meal of hodge-podge stuff. I understand now how your youth and spirits Fought back the drabness of the village, And wonder not you spent the afternoons With such bright company as Eugenia Turner—      And I forgive you hunger, loneliness. But when we asked you where you'd been, Complained of loneliness and hunger, spoke of children Who lived in order, sat down thrice a day To cream and porridge, bread and meat. We think to corner you—alas for us! Your anger flashes swords! Reasons pour out Like anvil sparks to justify your way:      "Your father's always gone—you selfish children, You'd have me in the house from morn till night."      You put us in the wrong—our cause is routed. We turn to bed unsatisfied in mind, You've overwhelmed us, not convinced us. Our sense of wrong defeat breeds resolution To whip you out when minds grow strong. Up in the moon-lit room without a light,      (The lamps have not been filled,)      We crawl in unmade beds. We leave you pouring over paper backs. We peek above your shoulder. It is "The Lady in White" you read. Next morning you are dead for sleep, You've sat up more than half the night. We have been playing hours when you arise, It's nine o'clock when breakfast's served at last,      When school days come I'm always late to school. Shy, hungry children scuffle at your door, Eye through the crack, maybe, at nine o'clock, Find father has returned during the night. You are all happiness, his idlest word Provokes your laughter. He shows us rolls of precious money earned; He's given you a silk dress, money too For suits and shoes for us—all is forgiven. You run about the house, As with a winged descending flight and cry Half song, half exclamation. We're sick so much. But then no human soul Could be more sweet when one of us is sick. We run to colds, have measles, mumps, our throats Are weak, the 

 Prev. P 21/125 next