Summer Evening

The evening is soft and the purple dusk deep,

The village a-slumber, my baby asleep,

The cradle a-rocking beneath my tired foot,

The fire a-flaming in this little hut.

My husband’s a-fighting somewhere in the wild,

And I am alone with my sweet little child,

With my fingers a-knitting, my needles a-click,

And my candle a-spitting upon its short wick.

My eyes are a-smarting now in the lost light;

I lay down my wool and look out towards the night.

Our window is small and it holds back the wind

But a-shows all the shadows of trees as they bend.

A storm catches up and a-whirls through the dell;

It rattles our door with a savage’s yell.

I long for his arms to a-hold me so strong,

To hush me and keep me from feeling alone.

But I keep on a-rocking the cradle so crude,

My foot going up and a-down as I brood.

I keep all my thoughts locked away in my breast

Along with the mem’ries of him I love best.

The wind’s now a-dying. I poke at the flames.

I pick up my wool as the thunderstorm tames–

A-rocking my baby, a-listening to rain

While the fire’s now flickering, peaceful again.

The evening is soft and the purple night deep,

The village a-slumber, my baby asleep,

The cradle a-rocking beneath my tired foot,

The fire a-flaming in this little hut.

By Mary Faustina

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