Classic Poem

And aye she sat by the cheek of the grate,
Pretending to shape and to sew;
But she looked at all that entered the hall
As if she would look them through.

Her hands she rung, and at times she sung
Some wild airs for the dead;
Then 'gan to tell a crazy tale—
She told it for a meed:

‘I once had a son, but now he is gone—
They tore my son from me—
His life-blood streamed where the cormorant screamed,
On the wild rocks girt by the sea.

So hard his lone bed, and unpillowed his head,
For the dark-sea cave is his urn;
The cliff-flowers weep o'er his slumbers so deep,
And the dead-lights over him burn.

Say what can restore the form that's no more,
Or illumine the death-set eye?
Yes, a wild mother's tears, and a wild mother's prayers,
A spirit may force from the sky!

When the sun had rose high, and the season gone by,
My yearnings continued the same:
I prayed to Heaven both morning and even
To send me my son—till he came!

One evening late by the chimney I sate:
I dreamed of the times that were gone—
Of its chirrup so eerie the cricket was weary,
All silent I sate and alone.

The fire burnt bright, and I saw by the light
My own son enter the hall;
A white birchen wand he held in his hand,
But no shadow had he on the wall.

He looked at the flame, as forward he came,
All steadfast, and looked not away;
His motion was still as mist on the hill,
And his colour like cold-white clay.

I knew him full well—but the tones of the bell
Which quavered as midnight it rung
So stunned me I strove, but I could not move
My hand, my foot, nor my tongue.

Blood-drops in a shower then fell on the floor
From the roof, and they fell upon me:
No water their stain could wash out again—
Those blood-drops still may you see!

His form still grew, and the flame burnt blue,
I stretched out my arms to embrace;
But he turned his dead eye, so hollow and dry,
And so wistfully gazed in my face,

That my head whirled round, and the walls and the ground
All darkened—no more could I see—
But each finger's point, and each finger's joint,
Grew thick as the joint of my knee.

I wakened ere day, but my son was away,
No word to me had he said;
Though my blood was boiling, and my heart recoiling,
To see him again still I prayed—

And often he has come to my lonely home,
In guise that might adamant melt:
He has offered his hand with expression so bland,
But that hand could never be felt.

I've oft seen him glide so close by my side,
On his grave-cloth the seams I could trace:
The blood from a wound trickled down to the ground,
And a napkin was over his face.

So oft have I seen that death-like mien
It has somewhat bewildered my brain;
Yet though chilled with affright at the terrible sight,
I long still to see it again!