Of neatness little changed — but that I thoughtThe honeysuckle crowded round the doorAnd from the wall hung down in heavier wreaths,And knots of worthless sconecrop started out 310Along the window's edge, and grew like weedsAgainst the lower panes. I turned asideAnd strolled into her garden, It was changed.The unprofitable bindweed spread his bellsFrom side to side, and with unwieldy wreaths 315Had dragged the rose from its sustaining wallAnd bent it down to earth31 The border tufts,Daisy, and thrift, and lowly camomile,And thyme, had straggled out into the pathsWhich they were used to deck.Ere this an hour 320Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps,And as I walked before the door it chancedA stranger passed, and guessing whom I sought,He said that she was used to ramble far.The sun was sinking in the west, and now 325I sat with sad impatience. From withinHer solitary infant cried aloud.The spot though fair seemed very desolate,The longer I remained more desolate;And looking round I saw the corner-stones, 330Till then unmarked, on either side the doorWith dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'erWith tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheepThat feed upon the commons thither cameFamiliarly, and found a coaching-place 335Even at her threshold.The house-clock struck eight:I turned and saw her distant a few steps.Her face was pale and thin, her figure tooWas changed. As she unlocked the door she said,'It grieves me you have waited here so long, 340But in good truth I've wandered much of late,And sometimes — to my shame I speak — have needOf my best prayers to bring me back again.'While on the board she spread our evening mealShe told me she had lost her elder child, 345That he for months had been a serving-boy,Apprenticed by the parish, — 'I perceiveYou look at me, and you have cause. TodayI have been travelling far, and many daysAbout the fields I wander, knowing this 350Only, that what I seek I cannot find.And so I waste my time: for I am changed,And to myself, said she, 'have done much wrong,And to this helpless infant, I have sleptWeeping, and weeping I have waked. My tears 355Have flowed as if my body were nut suchAs others are, and I could never die.But I am now in mind and in my heartMore easy, and I hope', said she, 'that HeavenWill give me patience to endure the things 360Which I behold at home.'Second Part (2)It would have grievedYour very soul to see her. Sir, I reelThe story linger in my heart. I fearTis long and tedious, but my spirit clingsTo that poor woman. So familiarly 365Do I perceive her manner and her lookAnd presence, and so deeply do I feelHer goodness, that not seldom in my walksA momentary trance comes over meAnd to myself 1 seem to muse on one 370By sorrow laid asleep or borne away,A human being destined to awakeTo human life, or something very nearTo human life, when he shall come againFor whom she suffered. Sir, it would have grieved 375Your very soul to see her: evermoreHer eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast.And when she at her table gave me foodShe did not look at me. Her voice was low,Her body was subdued. In every act 380Pertaining to her house-aftairs appearedThe careless stillness which a thinking mindGives to an idle matter. Still she sighed,But yet no motion of the breast was seen,No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 385We sat together, sighs came on my ear —I knew not how, and hardly whence, they came.I took my staff, and when I kissed her babeThe tears stood in her eyes. I left her thenWith the best hope and comfort 1 could give: 390She thanked me for my will, but for my hopeIt seemed she did not thank me.I returnedAnd took my rounds along this road againEre on its sunny bank the primrose flowerHad chronicled the earliest day of spring. 395I found her sad and drooping. She had learned.
