WHERE wild-heaped rubble o'erpeers the pitmouth black He sits half dazed, scarce recking what betid Since round his gang crashed roof and wall in wrack— @3Long@1 since, it seems, so slow the dark hours slid While, with the hillside for his coffin lid, Stifling he cowered, heart-sick and ears astrain For strokes, that now at last his path have rid Back to blurred noon a-mist through bleak March rain. Groups come and go. A white face, pausing near As rough girls point her, stares at him distraught; Then wails: 'Not he? Ye've fooled me. Jack baint theer. Yo'towd me, lass, yo'd seed him safely brought. Yon? Yon's Bob Smith, a drunken good-for-naught, Owns wife nor barne t'axe gin he's down or no. An' Cap'en says t'rest on 'em'll ne'er be raught— Nay, t'wrang mon's saved, lass: my mon's lost below.' Poor soul, whose shattered hope no hap shall mend: Crushed into clay kind heart and strong hand lie. But this man few had mourned as few befriend; He thinks so, maybe, while the folk pass by, Not one face gladder that their grey-palled sky Still metes him out his tale of drudging days And sparse-strewn pleasures, matched in stall and sty: Aye, the wrong man, for sure, as who gain-says? A cur, ungainly, hunger-pinched and old, Who makes him halting haste on gaunt legs three, Comes nigh and nigh with crouchings manifold, Low whining to himself for fearful glee, Till shag-pate rub against the grimy knee, And pouncing paws. You watch a dim smile wake Slow in the listless eyes: 'Eh, Grip,' says he, 'A be t'roight mon for yo' an' no mistake.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GRINDSTONE by ROBERT FROST SONNET: 22. TO THE SAME [CYRIACK SKINNER] by JOHN MILTON LOOKING FORWARD by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SYSTEM by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON CELESTIAL HEIGHTS by ALFRED AUSTIN THE SONG OF THE SPANISH MAIN by JOHN BENNETT (1865-1956) |