English poem
_The Farm-House._
by Constance Fenimore Woolson (1840–1894)
THE LADY.
The sun is setting, we have passed the mill Some time; the house is near Waunona Hill, But the road smooth this way--which doth account For the discrepancy of names. The gleam Of the low sun shines out beneath that mass Of purple thunder-cloud; when we surmount This little swell of land, its slanting beam Will light up all the lances of the grass, The steely hue, the blue of the Blue Grass.
* * * * *
That is the house off on the right; I know By intuition.
THE MAIDEN.
It may hold--the worst!
THE LADY.
Art faint?
THE MAIDEN.
’Twill pass. Lady, I enter first-- First and alone!
THE LADY.
Child, if I thought his heart Longed for the sight of you, I’d let you go; Nay, I would make you! As it is-- But no, It cannot be.
THE MAIDEN (clasping her hands).
Lord, give me strength! I yield; Go you the first. Ah! [Sobs.
THE LADY.
Yours the nobler part; I cannot yield. (And yet it is for him I hold this “cannot” firm.) What might you wield With that unflinching conscience-power! See, dim Mine eyes-- There; we will go together--thus! God help us both! [They enter the house. Yes, we have come, we two, His nearest, dearest. Is it perilous, The fever? Where--above? That stair? We go-- Come, child--come, child.
WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.
Dear ladies, you should know Before--
THE LADY.
Come!
WOMAN OF THE HOUSE.
He--
THE LADY.
Child, must I wait for you Here at his door!
THE MAIDEN.
I come; but something cold Has touched my heart.
THE LADY.
Then stay, coward!
THE MAIDEN.
Nay, hold; I come. [They mount the stairs together. (Crying out above.) But he is dead--my Willie!
THE LADY (above).
Fate, You’ve gained the day at last! Yes, he is dead!