William Wordsworth
The Mad Mother
from Lyrical Ballads (Volume I, 1798)
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, | ||
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, | ||
Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, | ||
And she came far from over the main. | ||
5 | She has a baby on her arm, | |
Or else she were alone; | ||
And underneath the hay-stack warm, | ||
And on the green-wood stone, | ||
She talked and sung the woods among; | ||
10 | And it was in the English tongue. | |
Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, | ||
But nay, my heart is far too glad; | ||
And I am happy when I sing | ||
Full many a sad and doleful thing: | ||
15 | Then, lovely baby, do not fear! | |
I pray thee have no fear of me, | ||
But, safe as in a cradle, here | ||
My lovely baby! thou shalt be, | ||
To thee I know too much I owe; | ||
20 | I cannot work thee any woe. | |
A fire was once within my brain; | ||
And in my head a dull, dull pain; | ||
And fiendish faces one, two, three, | ||
Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. | ||
25 | But then there came a sight of joy; | |
It came at once to do me good; | ||
I waked, and saw my little boy, | ||
My little boy of flesh and blood; | ||
Oh joy for me that sight to see! | ||
30 | For he was here, and only he. | |
Suck, little babe, oh suck again! | ||
It cools my blood; it cools my brain; | ||
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they | ||
Draw from my heart the pain away. | ||
35 | Oh! press me with thy little hand; | |
It loosens something at my chest; | ||
About that tight and deadly band | ||
I feel thy little fingers press'd. | ||
The breeze I see is in the tree; | ||
40 | It comes to cool my babe and me. | |
Oh! love me, love me, little boy! | ||
Thou art thy mother's only joy; | ||
And do not dread the waves below, | ||
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; | ||
45 | The high crag cannot work me harm, | |
Nor leaping torrents when they howl; | ||
The babe I carry on my arm, | ||
He saves for me my precious soul; | ||
Then happy lie, for blest am I; | ||
50 | Without me my sweet babe would die. | |
Then do not fear, my boy! for thee | ||
Bold as a lion I will be; | ||
And I will always be thy guide, | ||
Through hollow snows and rivers wide. | ||
55 | I'll build an Indian bower; I know | |
The leaves that make the softest bed: | ||
And if from me thou wilt not go. | ||
But still be true 'till I am dead, | ||
My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, | ||
60 | As merry as the birds in spring. | |
Thy father cares not for my breast, | ||
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: | ||
'Tis all thine own! and if its hue | ||
Be changed, that was so fair to view, | ||
65 | 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! | |
My beauty, little child, is flown; | ||
But thou will live with me in love, | ||
And what if my poor cheek be brown? | ||
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see | ||
70 | How pale and wan it else would be. | |
Dread not their taunts, my little life! | ||
I am thy father's wedded wife; | ||
And underneath the spreading tree | ||
We two will live in honesty. | ||
75 | If his sweet boy he could forsake, | |
With me he never would have stay'd: | ||
From him no harm my babe can take, | ||
But he, poor man! is wretched made, | ||
And every day we two will pray | ||
80 | For him that's gone and far away. | |
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; | ||
I'll teach him how the owlet sings. | ||
My little babe! thy lips are still, | ||
And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. | ||
85 | -Where art thou gone my own dear child? | |
What wicked looks are those I see? | ||
Alas! alas! that look so wild, | ||
It never, never came from me: | ||
If thou art mad, my pretty lad, | ||
90 | Then I must be for ever sad. | |
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! | ||
For I thy own dear mother am. | ||
My love for thee has well been tried: | ||
I've sought thy father far and wide. | ||
95 | I know the poisons of the shade, | |
I know the earth-nuts fit for food; | ||
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; | ||
We'll find thy father in the wood. | ||
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! | ||
100 | And there, my babe; we'll live for aye. | |
First published 1798
Robert Clark