The Chair

The chair was made     By hands long dead,     Polished by many bodies sitting there,     Until the wood-lines flowed as clean as waves.     Mine sat restless there,     Or propped to stare     Hugged the low kitchen with fond eyes     Or tired eyes that looked at nothing at all.     Or watched from the smoke rise     The flame's snake-eyes,     Up the black-bearded chimney leap;     Then on my shoulder my dull head would drop.     And half asleep     I heard her creep--     Her never-singing lips shut fast,     Fearing to wake me by a careless breath.     Then, at last,     My lids upcast,     Our eyes met, I smiled and she smiled,     And I shut mine again and truly slept.     Was I that child     Fretful, sick, wild?     Was that you moving soft and soft     Between the rooms if I but played at sleep?     Or if I laughed,     Talked, cried, or coughed,     You smiled too, just perceptibly,     Or your large kind brown eyes said, O poor boy!     From the fireside I     Could see the narrow sky     Through the barred heavy window panes,     Could hear the sparrows quarrelling round the lilac;     And hear the heavy rains     Choking in the roof-drains:--     Else of the world I nothing heard     Or nothing remember now. But most I loved     To watch when you stirred     Busily like a bird     At household doings; with hands floured     Mixing a magic with your cakes and tarts.     O into me, sick, froward,     Yourself you poured;     In all those days and weeks when I     Sat, slept, woke, whimpered, wondered and slept again.     Now but a memory     To bless and harry me     Remains of you still swathed with care;     Myself your chief care, sitting by the hearth     Propped in the pillowed chair,     Following you with tired stare,     And my hand following the wood lines     By dead hands smoothed and followed many years.