Mother and Poet

百度搜索 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE AND OTHER LOVE POEMS 天涯 或 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE AND OTHER LOVE POEMS 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.

    <strong>Mother and Poet</strong>

    I.

    Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east,

    And one of them shot in the west by the sea.

    Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast

    And are wanting a great song for Italy free,

    Let none look at me !

    II.

    Yet I oetess only last year,

    And good at my art, for a woman, men said ;

    But this woman, this, who is agonized here,

    -- The east sea a sea rhyme on in her head

    For ever instead.

    III.

    What art  a woman be good at ? Oh, vain !

    What art is she good at, but hurting her breast

    With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ?

    Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong as you pressed,

    And I proud, by that test.

    IV.

    What arts for a woman ? To hold on her knees

    Both darlings ! to feel all their arms rouhroat,

    g, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees

    And broider the long-clothes a little coat ;

    To dream and to doat.

    V.

    To teach them ... It stings there ! I made them indeed

    Speak plain the word try. I taught them, no doubt,

    That a trys a thing men should die for at need.

    I prated of liberty, rights, and about

    The tyrant cast out.

    VI.

    And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes ! ...

    I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels

    Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise

    Whes quite alohen one weeps, then one kneels !

    God, how the house feels !

    VII.

    At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled

    With my kisses, -- of camp-life and glory, and how

    They both loved me ; and, soon ing home to be spoiled

    Iurn would fan off every fly from my brow

    With their green laurel-bough.

    VIII.

    Then was triumph at Turin : `Ana was free !

    73

    And some one came out of the cheers ireet,

    With a face pale as stoo say something to me.

    My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet,

    While they cheered ireet.

    IX.

    I bore it ; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime

    As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained

    To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time

    When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained

    To the height he had gained.

    X.

    Aers still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,

    Writ now but in one hand, `I was not to faint, --

    One <mark>.99lib.</mark>loved me for two -- would be with me ere long :

    And Viva l Italia !<tt>99ｌｉｂ.t> -- he died for, our saint,

    Who forbids our plaint.&quot;

    X<big></big>I.

    My Nanni would add, `he was safe, and aware

    Of a presehat turned off the balls, -- was imprest

    It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,

    And how twas impossible, quite dispossessed,

    To live on for the rest.&quot;

    XII.

    On which, without pause, up the telegraph line

    Swept smoothly the  news from Gaeta : -- Shot.

    Tell his mother. Ah, ah, ` his,  ` their  mother, -- not ` mine,

    No voice says &quot;My mother&quot; again to me. What !

    You think Guidot ?

    XIII.

    Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven,

    They drop earths affes, ceive not of woe ?

    I think not. Themselves were too lately fiven

    Through THAT Love and Sorrow which reciled so

    The Above and Below.

    XIV.

    O Christ of the five wounds, who lookdst through the dark

    To the face of Thy mother ! sider, I pray,

    How we others stand desolate, mark,

    Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,

    And no last word to say !

    XV.

    Both boys dead ? but thats out of nature. We all

    Have been patriots, yet each house must<figure>.99lib.</figure> always keep one.

    Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ;

    And, when Italy s made, for what end is it done

    74

    If we have not a son ?

    XVI.

    Ah, ah, ah ! wheas taken, what then ?

    When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport

    Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ?

    When the guns of Cavalli with final retort

    Have cut the game short ?

    XVII.

    When Venid Rome keep their new jubilee,

    When your <abbr>.99lib.</abbr>flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red,

    When you have your try from mountain to sea,

    When King Victor has Italys  on his head,

    (And I have my Dead) --

    XVIII.

    What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,

    And burn yhts faintly ! My try is there,

    Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow :

    My Italy s THERE, with my brave civic Pair,

    To disfranchise despair !

    XIX.

    Five me. Some women bear children in strength,

    And bite back the cry of their pain in self-s ;

    But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length

    Into wail such as this -- a on forlorn

    When the man-child is born.

    XX.

    Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east,

    And one of them shot in the west by the sea.

    Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast

    You want a great song for your Italy free,

    Let none look at me !

    [This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sonswere killed at

    Ana and Gaeta.]

    <strong>Elizabeth Barrett Browning</strong>

百度搜索 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE AND OTHER LOVE POEMS 天涯 或 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE AND OTHER LOVE POEMS 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.