No tidings of her husband. If he lived, She knew not that he lived: if he were dead, She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same In person or appearance, but her house 400 Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence, The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless, The windows too were dim, and her few books Which one upon the other heretofore 405 Had been piled up against the corner-panes In seemly order, now with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, As they had chanced со fall. Her infant babe Had from its mother caught the trick36 of grief, 410 And sighed among its playthings. Once again I turned towards the garden-gate, and saw More plainly still that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her. The earth was hard, With weeds defaced and knots of withered grass; 415 No ridges there appeared of clear black mould37 No winter greenness. Of her herbs and flowers It seemed the better pare were gnawed away Or trampled on the earth. A chain of straw, Which had been twisted round the tender stem 420 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And, seeing that my eye was on the tree, Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house Together we returned, and she enquired If I had any hope. But for her babe, And for her little friendless boy, she said, She had no wish to live — that she must die 430 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place. His Sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail, his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when I passed this way beaten by autumn winds, 435 She told me that her little babe was dead And she was left alone. That very time, I yet remember, through the miry lane She walked with me a mile, when the bare trees Trickled with foggy damps, and in such sort 440 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged That wheresoe'er I went I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then, Our final parting; for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned 445 Into this tract again. Five tedious year She lingered in unquiet widowhood, A wife and widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting. I have heard, my friend, That in that broken arbour she would sit 450 The idle length of half a sabbath day — There, where you see the toadstool's lazy head — And when a dog passed by she still would quit The shade and look abroad. On this old bench For hours she sat, and evermore her eye 455 Was busy in the distance, shaping things Which made her heart beat quick, Seest thou that path? — The greensward now has broken its grey line — There to and fro she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of flax 460 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments showed the soldier's red Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, The little child who sat to turn the wheel 465 Ceased from his toil, and she, with faltering voice, Expecting still to learn her husband's fate Made many a fond enquiry; and when they Whose presence gave no comfort were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate 470 Which bars the traveller's road, she often stood, And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully, Most happy if from aught discovered there Of tender feeling she might dare repeat 475 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut Sunk to decay; for he was gone, whose hand At the first nippings of October frost Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 480 Through the long winter, reckless and atone, Till this reft house, by frost, and thaw, and rain, Was sapped; and when she slept, the nightly damps Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind 485 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence; and still that length of road, And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart. And here, my friend, 490 In sickness she remained; and here she died, Last human tenant of these ruined walls The old man ceased; he saw that I was moved.
