In the first year of the last disgrace Peace, turning her face away, Coughing in laurelled fires, weeping, Drags out from her hatcheted heart The sunset axe of the day. And leaning up against the red sky She mourns over evening cities: The milky morning springs from her mothering breast Half choked with happy memories And fulfilment of miseries. 'I am the wife of the workman world With an apron full of children -- And happy, happy any hovel was With my helping hand under his gifted head And for my sleep his shoulder. 'I wish that the crestfallen stars would fall Out of his drunken eye and strike My children cold. I wish the big sea Would pity them, and pity me, And smother us all alike. 'Bitter sun, bitter sun, put out your lions As I have put out my hope. For he will take them in his clever hand And teach them how to dismember love Just as though it was Europe. ‘O washing-board Time, my hands are sore And the backs of the angels ache. For the redhanded husband has abandoned me To drag his coat in front of his pride, And I know my heart will break. In the first year of the last disgrace Peace, turning her face away, Coughing in fire and laurels, weeping, Bared again her butchered heart To the sunrise axe of the day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OF THE WARS IN IRELAND by JOHN HARRINGTON LAUS VENERIS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TO W. E. HENLEY by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN THE WANDERER: 3. IN ENGLAND: MIDGES by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |