Mother and Poet
I.
Dead
!
One
of
them
shot
by
the
sea
in
the
east,
And
one
of
them
shot
in
the
west
by
the
sea.
Dead
!
both
my
boys
!
When
you
sit
at
the
feast
And
are
wanting
a
great
song
for
Italy
free,
Let
none
look
at
me
!
II.
Yet
I
was
a
poetess
only
last
year,
And
good
at
my
art,
for
a
woman,
men
said
;
But
this
woman,
this,
who
is
agonized
here,
—
The
east
sea
and
west
sea
rhyme
on
in
her
head
For
ever
instead.
III.
What
art
can
a
woman
be
good
at
?
Oh,
vain
!
What
art
is
she
good
at,
but
hurting
her
breast
With
the
milk-teeth
of
babes,
and
a
smile
at
the
pain
?
Ah
boys,
how
you
hurt
!
you
were
strong
as
you
pressed,
And
I
proud,
by
that
test.
IV.
What
art's
for
a
woman
?
To
hold
on
her
knees
Both
darlings
!
to
feel
all
their
arms
round
her
throat,
Cling,
strangle
a
little
!
to
sew
by
degrees
And
'broider
the
long-clothes
and
neat
little
coat
;
To
dream
and
to
doat.
V.
To
teach
them…
It
stings
there
!
I
made
them
indeed
Speak
plain
the
word
country.
I
taught
them,
no
doubt,
That
a
country's
a
thing
men
should
die
for
at
need.
I
prated
of
liberty,
rights,
and
about
The
tyrant
cast
out.
VI.
And
when
their
eyes
flashed…
O
my
beautiful
eyes
!…
I
exulted
;
nay,
let
them
go
forth
at
the
wheels
Of
the
guns,
and
denied
not.
But
then
the
surprise
When
one
sits
quite
alone
!
Then
one
weeps,
then
one
kneels
!
God,
how
the
house
feels
!
VII.
At
first,
happy
news
came,
in
gay
letters
moiled
With
my
kisses,
—
of
camp-life
and
glory,
and
how
They
both
loved
me
;
and,
soon
coming
home
to
be
spoiled
In
return
would
fan
off
every
fly
from
my
brow
With
their
green
laurel-bough.
VIII.
Then
was
triumph
at
Turin
:
`Ancona
was
free
!'
And
some
one
came
out
of
the
cheers
in
the
street,
With
a
face
pale
as
stone,
to
say
something
to
me.
My
Guido
was
dead
!
I
fell
down
at
his
feet,
While
they
cheered
in
the
street.
IX.
I
bore
it
;
friends
soothed
me
;
my
grief
looked
sublime
As
the
ransom
of
Italy.
One
boy
remained
To
be
leant
on
and
walked
with,
recalling
the
time
When
the
first
grew
immortal,
while
both
of
us
strained
To
the
height
he
had
gained.
X.
And
letters
still
came,
shorter,
sadder,
more
strong,
Writ
now
but
in
one
hand,
`I
was
not
to
faint,
—
One
loved
me
for
two
—
would
be
with
me
ere
long
:
And
Viva
l'
Italia
!
—
he
died
for,
our
saint,
Who
forbids
our
complaint."
XI.
My
Nanni
would
add,
`he
was
safe,
and
aware
Of
a
presence
that
turned
off
the
balls,
—
was
imprest
It
was
Guido
himself,
who
knew
what
I
could
bear,
And
how
'twas
impossible,
quite
dispossessed,
To
live
on
for
the
rest."
XII.
On
which,
without
pause,
up
the
telegraph
line
Swept
smoothly
the
next
news
from
Gaeta
:
—
Shot.
Tell
his
mother.
Ah,
ah,
`
his,
'
`
their
'
mother,
—
not
`
mine,
'
No
voice
says
"My
mother"
again
to
me.
What
!
You
think
Guido
forgot
?
XIII.
Are
souls
straight
so
happy
that,
dizzy
with
Heaven,
They
drop
earth's
affections,
conceive
not
of
woe
?
I
think
not.
Themselves
were
too
lately
forgiven
Through
THAT
Love
and
Sorrow
which
reconciled
so
The
Above
and
Below.
XIV.
O
Christ
of
the
five
wounds,
who
look'dst
through
the
dark
To
the
face
of
Thy
mother
!
consider,
I
pray,
How
we
common
mothers
stand
desolate,
mark,
Whose
sons,
not
being
Christs,
die
with
eyes
turned
away,
And
no
last
word
to
say
!
XV.
Both
boys
dead
?
but
that's
out
of
nature.
We
all
Have
been
patriots,
yet
each
house
must
always
keep
one.
'Twere
imbecile,
hewing
out
roads
to
a
wall
;
And,
when
Italy
's
made,
for
what
end
is
it
done
If
we
have
not
a
son
?
XVI.
Ah,
ah,
ah
!
when
Gaeta's
taken,
what
then
?
When
the
fair
wicked
queen
sits
no
more
at
her
sport
Of
the
fire-balls
of
death
crashing
souls
out
of
men
?
When
the
guns
of
Cavalli
with
final
retort
Have
cut
the
game
short
?
XVII.
When
Venice
and
Rome
keep
their
new
jubilee,
When
your
flag
takes
all
heaven
for
its
white,
green,
and
red,
When
you
have
your
country
from
mountain
to
sea,
When
King
Victor
has
Italy's
crown
on
his
head,
(And
I
have
my
Dead)
—
XVIII.
What
then
?
Do
not
mock
me.
Ah,
ring
your
bells
low,
And
burn
your
lights
faintly
!
My
country
is
there,
Above
the
star
pricked
by
the
last
peak
of
snow
:
My
Italy
's
THERE,
with
my
brave
civic
Pair,
To
disfranchise
despair
!
XIX.
Forgive
me.
Some
women
bear
children
in
strength,
And
bite
back
the
cry
of
their
pain
in
self-scorn
;
But
the
birth-pangs
of
nations
will
wring
us
at
length
Into
wail
such
as
this
—
and
we
sit
on
forlorn
When
the
man-child
is
born.
XX.
Dead
!
One
of
them
shot
by
the
sea
in
the
east,
And
one
of
them
shot
in
the
west
by
the
sea.
Both
!
both
my
boys
!
If
in
keeping
the
feast
You
want
a
great
song
for
your
Italy
free,
Let
none
look
at
me
!
[This
was
Laura
Savio,
of
Turin,
a
poetess
and
patriot,
whose
sonswere
killed
at
Ancona
and
Gaeta.]
