THE WOMAN IN THE RYE

“Why do you stand in the dripping rye,

Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee,

When there are firesides near?” said I.

“I told him I wished him dead,” said she.

“Yea, cried it in my haste to one

Whom I had loved, whom I well loved still;

And die he did. And I hate the sun,

And stand here lonely, aching, chill;

“Stand waiting, waiting under skies

That blow reproach, the while I see

The rooks sheer off to where he lies

Wrapt in a peace withheld from me.”