DuBose Heyward

AMONG the sullen peaks she stood at bay

And paid life’s hard account from her small store.

Knowing the code of mountain wives, she bore

The burden of the days without a sigh;

And, sharp against the somber winter sky,

I saw her drive her steers afield each day.

Hers was the hand that sunk the furrows deep

Across the rocky, grudging southern slope.

At first youth left her face, and later hope;

Yet through each mocking spring and barren fall,

She reared her lusty brood, and gave them all

That gladder wives and mothers love to keep.

And when the sheriff shot her eldest son

Beside his still, so well she knew her part,

She gave no healing tears to ease her heart;

But took the blow upstanding, with her eyes

As drear and bitter as the winter skies.

Seeing her then, I thought that she had won.

But yesterday her man returned too soon

And found her tending, with a reverent touch,

One scarlet bloom; and, having drunk too much,

He snatched its flame and quenched it in the dirt.

Then, like a creature with a mortal hurt,

She fell, and wept away the afternoon.