A SALEM MOTHER

They whisper at my very gate, These clacking gossips every one, "We saw them in the wood of late, Her and the widow's son; The horses at the forge may wait, The wool may go unspun."

I spread the food he loves the best, I light the lamp when day is done, Yet still he stays another's guest— Oh, my one son, my son. I would it burned in mine own breast The spell he may not shun.

She hath bewitched him with her eyes. (No goodly maid hath eyes as bright.) Pale in the morn I watch him rise, As one who wanders far by night. The gossips whisper and surmise— I hide me from the light.