He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: “What is it you see From up there always?—for I want to know.”
[“]I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to it—that’s the reason. The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it . . . But I understand: it is not the stones, But the child’s mound——”
Don’t carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it’s something human. Let me into your grief. I’m not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance.
[“]God, what a woman! And it’s come to this, A man can’t speak of his own child that’s dead.” . . . “You can’t because you don’t know how to speak. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand—how could you?—his little grave . . .
No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretense of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand. But the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won’t, I won’t!