Moab

There was always waiting in our mother’s eyes,
Anxiety and wonder and surmise,
Through the long days, and in the longer, slow,
Still afternoons, that seemed to never go,
And in the evening, when she used to sit
And listen to our casual talk, and knit.
And when the day was dark and rainy, and
Not fit to be abroad in, she would stand
Beside the window, and peer out and shiver,
As small sleek raindrops joined to make a river
That rushed, tempestuous, down the window pane,
And say, “I wonder what they do in rain?
Is it wet there in the trenches, do you think?”
And she would wonder if he had his ink
And razor blades and toothpaste that she sent;
And if he read much in his Testament,
Or clean forgot, some mornings, as boys will.
But always the one wonder in her eyes
Was, “Is he living, living, living, still
Alive and gay? Or lying dead somewhere
Out on the ground, and will they find him there?”
She closed her lids each night upon that look
Of waiting, as a hand might close a book
But never change the words that were within.
And when the morning noises would begin
A new day, and a young sun touched the skies,
Again she woke with waiting in her eyes.

But that is over now. She does not read
The lists of casualties, since that one came
A week or two ago. There is no need.
She’s making sweaters now for other men
And knitting just as carefully as then.
There is no change, except that as she plies
Her needles, swift and rhythmic as before,
There is no waiting in our mother’s eyes,
Anxiety or wonder any more.

                           Come, boys, sing!—
                               Sing of the yellow corn,
                           Sing, boys, sing,
                               Sing of the yellow corn!
He springeth up from the fallow soil,
With the blade so green and tall,
And he payeth well the reaper’s toil,
When the husks in the autumn fall.
              The pointed leaves,
                  And the golden ear,
              The rustling sheaves,
                  In the ripened year—
                            Sing, boys, sing!
                               Sing of the yellow corn,
                            Sing, boys, sing,
                               Sing of the yellow corn.

He drinks the rain in the summer long,
And he loves the streams that run,
And he sends the stalk so stout and strong,
To bask in the summer sun.
              The pointed leaves,
                   And the golden ear,
              The rustling sheaves,
                   In the ripened year—
                              Sing, boys, sing!
                                  Sing of the yellow corn,
                              Sing, boys, sing,
                                  Sing of the yellow corn.

He loves the dews of the starry night,
And the breathing wind that plays
With his tassels green, when the mellow light
Of the moon on the meadow stays.
              The pointed leaves,
                   And the golden ear,
              The rustling sheaves,
                   In the ripened year—
                              Sing, boys, sing!
                                  Sing of the yellow corn,
                              Sing, boys, sing,
                                  Sing of the yellow corn.

A glorious thing is the yellow corn,
With the blade so green and tall,
A blessed thing is the yellow corn,
When the husks in the autumn fall.
              Then, sing, boys, sing!
                  Sing of the yellow corn,
              Sing, boys, sing,
                  Sing of the yellow corn!
                     The pointed leaves,
                          And the golden ear,
                     The rustling sheaves,
                          In the ripened year—
                              Come, sing, boys, sing!
                                   Sing of the yellow corn,
                               Sing, boys, sing,
                                   Sing of the yellow corn.

One does such work as one will not,
    And well each knows the right;
Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot,
    The black must serve the white.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s softening flesh,
    While the black man’s muscles grow!
Well I know which grows the mightier,
    I know; full well I know.

The white man seeks the soft, fat place,
    And he moves and he works by rule.
Ingenious grows the humbler race
    In Oppression’s prodding school.
And it’s, oh, for a white man gone to seed,
    While the Negro struggles so!
And I know which race develops most,
    I know; yes, well I know.

The white man rides in a palace car,
    And the Negro rides “Jim Crow”
To damn the other with bolt and bar,
    One creepeth so low; so low!
And it’s, oh, for a master’s nose in the mire,
    While the humbled hearts o’erflow!
Well I know whose soul grows big at this,
    And whose grows small; I know!

The white man leases out his land,
    And the Negro tills the same.
One works; one loafs and takes command;
    But I know who wins the game!
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s shrinking soil.
    As the black’s rich acres grow!
Well I know how the signs point out at last,
    I know; ah, well I know!

The white man votes for his color’s sake.
    While the black, for his is barred;
(Though “ignorance” is the charge they make),
    But the black man studies hard.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s sad neglect,
    For the power of his light let go!
So, I know which man must win at last,
    I know! Ah, Friend, I know!