THE WAKEFUL HUSBAND

How blue the moonlight and how still the night.

Silent I ramble through the whole dear house

Setting aright in happy ownership

Whatever may lie out of its due place.

Books in the living room I rearrange,

Then in the dining room my pewter mugs,

And put her little brown nasturtium bowl

Where she can see it when she telephones.

Up in my den the papers are a-sprawl

And litter up my desk: these too I sort

Thinking, to-morrow I will rise betimes

And do my work neglected.... Tiptoe then

I pass into the Shrine. She is asleep,

Dark hair across the moon-blanched pillow slip.

Her eyes are sealed with peace, but as I touch

The girlish cheek, her lips are tremulous

With secret knowing smiles. In her boudoir

( Her “sulking room” I call it: did you know

It means that? ) I wind up the tiny clock

And stand at her Prayer Window where the fields

Lie listening to the crickets and the stars....

Alas, I only hear the throb of pain

That echoes from the moonlit fields of France.

Into our kitchen, too, I love to go,

Straighten the spoons against our break of fast,

Share secrets with our dog, the drowsy-eyed,

Surprise the kitten with some midnight milk.

The pantry cupboard, full of pleasant things,

Attracts me: there I love to place in line

The packages of cereals, or fill up

The breakfast sugar bowl; and empty out

The icebox pan into the singing night.

Then, as I fixed the cushions on the porch,

I wondered whether God, while wandering

Through his big house, the World, householderwise,

Does also quietly set things aright,

Gives sleep to sleepless wives in Germany

And gently smooths the battlefields of France?

Dear Father God, the children in their play

Have tossed their toys in saddest disarray —

Wilt Thou not, like a kindly nurse at dusk,

Pass through the playroom, make it neat again?