Among his books he sits all day
To think and read and write;
He does not smell the new-mown hay,
The roses red and white.
I walk among them all alone,
His silly, stupid wife;
The world seems tasteless, dead and done -
An empty thing is life.
At night his window casts a square
Of light upon the lawn;
I sometimes walk and watch it there
Until the chill of dawn.
I have no brain to understand
The books he loves to read;
I only have a heart and hand
He does not seem to need.
He calls me "Child" - lays on my hair
Thin fingers, cold and mild;
Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,
I wish I were a child!
And no one sees and no one knows
(He least would know or see),
That ere Love gathers next year's rose
Death will have gathered me.
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Comments
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This poem focuses on sad but strange feelings and emotions. The beauty of the expression lies in the simple wish (though wonderfully strange) of being a child to be loved by her beloved as she would...
"He calls me "Child" - lays on my hair
Thin fingers, cold and mild;
Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer,
I wish I were a child!"
It’s a Beauty!!!
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What a sad piece about feeling neglected by a loved one. Walking the gardens all alone, knowing that the answer to the solitude could be so simple...yet never being given what is needed to thrive. To me, the ending, may or may not be about a physical death. It could be the death of hope/emotional death...the giving up of the longing for the "more" that is never to be received. I found this piece to be very emotive...and very sadly so.
UB
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