WIDOW LA RUE
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What will happen, Widow La Rue?For last night at three o'clockYou woke and saw by your window againAmid the shadowy locust groveThe phantom of the old soldier:A shadow of blue, like mercury light--What will happen, Widow La Rue? * * * * * What may not happenIn this place of summer loneliness?For neither the sunlight of July,Nor the blue of the lake,Nor the green boundaries of cool woodlands,Nor the song of larks and thrushes,Nor the bravuras of bobolinks,Nor scents of hay new mown,Nor the ox-blood sumach cones,Nor the snow of nodding yarrow,Nor clover blossoms on the dizzy crestOf the bluff by the lakeCan take away the lonelinessOf this July by the lake! * * * * * Last night you saw the old soldierBy your window, Widow La Rue!Or was it your husband you saw,As he lay by the gate so long ago?With the iris of his eyes so black,And the white of his eyes so china-blue,And specks of blood on his face,Like a wall specked by a shake a brush;And something like blubber or pinkish wax,Hiding the gash in his throat----The serum and blood blown up by the breathFrom emptied lungs.
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