The Workbox
“See, here’s the workbox, little wife,That I made of polished oak.”He was a joiner, of village life;She came of borough folk.
He holds the present up to herAs with a smile she nearsAnd answers to the profferer,“’Twill last all my sewing years!”
“I warrant it will. And longer too.’Tis a scantling that I gotOff poor John Wayward’s coffin, whoDied of they knew not what.
“The shingled pattern that seems to ceaseAgainst your box’s rimContinues right on in the pieceThat’s underground with him.
“And while I worked it made me thinkOf timber’s varied doom;One inch where people eat and drink,The next inch in a tomb.
“But why do you look so white, my dear,And turn aside your face?You knew not that good lad, I fear,Though he came from your native place?”
“How could I know that good young man,Though he came from my native town,When he must have left there earlier thanI was a woman grown?”
“Ah no. I should have understood!It shocked you that I gaveTo you one end of a piece of woodWhose other is in a grave?”
“Don’t, dear, despise my intellect,Mere accidental thingsOf that sort never have effectOn my imaginings.”
Yet still her lips were limp and wan,Her face still held aside,As if she had known not only John,But known of what he died.
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