Poems (Kimball)/Woman

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

WOMAN.

1862.

AS though no shade of human wrong fell darkly on their beauty,
And all men walked in brotherhood the shining ways of duty,
The blessed summer days glide by in calm and sweet succession;
God writes on Nature's palace-walls no curse against oppression.

The strong man arms him for the fight; he hears the bugle calling;
And while between the patriot-shouts her tears have time for falling,
Pale woman plies the threaded steel nor shapes her lips to singing,
But still with every stitch she draws the pearls of prayer is stringing.

She thinks of those whose wounds are fresh; of those in death-sleep lying,
Whose brows of youth and manhood won their brightest crowns in dying;
She thinks of others brave and true hid in the smoke of battle,
Where bayonets gleam and cannon roar and bullets hiss and rattle.

She shudders while the words of fate along the wires are chasing,
Or trembling waits the hurried line some comrade may be tracing;
Her heart grows faint; she lifts her hands in anguished imploration:
"God save my soldier!" first she prays, and then, "God save the nation!"

And when she moans, "The very thought of loss doth overcome me!"
Crying, "If it be possible, oh let this cup pass from me!"
God chides her not if, choked with sobs, she adds to her petition
But brokenly Christ's after-words of meekness and submission.

He saw her pale with victory in the dark hour of trial,
When Self lay slain, and sorrowing Love was lettered with denial;
And the Divine One who alone can clearly read the human,
Traces the Hero's autograph though tear-blots of the Woman.