Poems (Hardy)/Palatire

by Irenè Hardy

IN BLANK VERSE

PALATIRE

"PALATIRE,"—a name, and nothing more in word,
Upon a leaning gravestone in the shade
Falling across that churchyard by the wood,
Where lie the generations of my race
Who held this land when living was a war
With elemental things. I knew her not
By any hearsay in my father's house,
And he, who, oldest, leaned upon his staff
To hear the preacher in the little church
On quiet summer days, but shook his head
And answered, when I asked, "None know! None know!"

Often I went, when shadows slanted long,
Softening the white and gray memorial stones
And dimming darkened churchyard tree and flower,
Sat near, and thought of unmourned Palatire,
And brushed away the swathing grass to read
Once more her name and age: just "Palatire,"
Born such a time, died then,—from date to date
But seventeen years and three poor barren months,
The stormiest of the winter time.
The stormiest of the winter time.Alone
Her grave was, yet near by the crowded row
That bore my own ancestral name on stones,
Here old and mossed, there carved with new device
From unstained marble, Other graves as old,
As low and sunken, lay in groups around,
But none like this, alone.
But none like this, alone.As once I sat
In that still mood that marks the end of day
Upon the reverent mind, I heard the sound
Of wheels that stopped upon the graveled way;
But turned not, sheltered by the wall of hedge,
Until close by I felt the fall of steps
Deep in the deep long grass, and saw,—unmarked
Because they noticed not,—an aged pair;
She leaned upon a staff, but he, erect
And stately, led her by the hand with care
That meant the tenderest love, close to the grave
Whose loneliness so much had moved my heart.
"This is the place, Salome; and here she lies
Who would have been my wife ere I met you
Had she not died upon that winter day
That else had seen us wed. Look up, Salome,
Dear Heart! Weep not for seventy years ago."

"O Heart, kind Heart, I weep to think what she,
This pale sweet Palatire, has missed and lost
In missing life and losing you,—these years,
These lovely years of joy and grief with you.
Had she no kindred that she lies alone?"

"She was the last of name and line, and turned
In grief away from her old home to find
Some balm in western lands for loss and dearth.
One happy autumn we together dwelt
In friendly neighborhood, and then we found
That home to each must mean a home for both;
And then she died. And restless, I could stay
No more where nothing was that did not speak
Of loss. Westward, away to wild, unbroken wood
I went for change medicinal to mind,
And, hewing out from forest deeps a home
Of field and orchard, caring not for whom,
I found at last the peace of mind and heart
That patient purpose gives, and better light
Upon the ways of God confirms.
Upon the ways of God confirms.Years passed,
And I met you, whom first I saw because
You stepped like Palatire; and when you spoke
Some trick of voice like hers awoke the thought
That yours was such a soul. I looked with eyes
That had not cared to see a woman's face and saw
A clear soul look from eyes as clear, and marked
The slender hand, the moss-dyed gown, the coil
Of brown-black hair with curlings at the neck,
And went and walked the woods and thought of you,—
Of Palatire, and then,—you know the tale,
For I have loved to tell it oft to you,—
How I loved you for Palatire, and still
Loved both the more, the more I dwelt with you.
The story of our life,"—
The story of our life,"—But in the dusk
They passed; I heard no more but wheels
That crunched the graveled path, then echoing hoofs
Receding in the dark. Nor ever knew whence came
Nor whither went these lovers of the days
Of olden time.
Of olden time.I broke a trailing branch
Of roses from the hedge and in the dusk
I laid it on the grave of Palatire
And marveled as I sought my woodland trail
Upon the gracious tears of sad Salome,
Upon the love of seventy years ago,
Alive and sweet, unchanged in those sweet souls.