Elizabeth Barrett Browning — Little Mattie

I. Dead! Thirteen a month ago! Short and narrow her life’s walk; Lover’s love she could not know Even by a dream or talk: Too young to be glad of youth, Missing honour, labour, rest, And the warmth of a babe’s mouth At the blossom of her breast. Must you pity her for this And for all the loss it is, You, her mother, with wet face, Having had all in your case? II. Just so young but yesternight, Now she is as old as death. Meek, obedient in your sight,        &nbspGentle to a beck or breath Only on last Monday! Yours,        &nbspAnswering you like silver bells Lightly touched! An hour matures:        &nbspYou can teach her nothing else. She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt’s pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows. III. Cross her quiet hands, and smooth        &nbspDown her patient locks of silk, Cold and passive as in truth        &nbspYou your fingers in spilt milk Drew along a marble floor;        &nbspBut her lips you cannot wring Into saying a word more,        &nbsp“Yes,” or “No,” or such a thing: Though you call and beg and wreak Half your soul out in a shriek, She will lie there in default And most innocent revolt. IV. Ay, and if she spoke, maybe        &nbspShe would answer, like the Son, “What is now ’twixt thee and me?”        &nbspDreadful answer! better none. Yours on Monday, God’s to-day!        &nbspYours, your child, your blood, your heart, Called ... you called her, did you say,        &nbsp“Little Mattie” for your part? Now already it sounds strange, And you wonder, in this change, What He calls His angel-creature, Higher up than you can reach her. V. ’T was a green and easy world        &nbspAs she took it; room to play (Though one’s hair might get uncurled        &nbspAt the far end of the day). What she suffered she shook off        &nbspIn the sunshine; what she sinned She could pray on high, enough        &nbspTo keep safe above the wind. If reproved by God or you, ’T was to better her, she knew; And if crossed, she gathered still ’T was to cross out something ill. VI. You, you had the right, you thought,        &nbspTo survey her with sweet scorn, Poor gay child, who had not caught        &nbspYet the octave-stretch forlorn Of your larger wisdom! Nay,        &nbspNow your places are changed so, In that same superior way        &nbspShe regards you dull and low As you did herself exempt From life’s sorrows. Grand contempt Of the spirits risen awhile, Who look back with such a smile! VII. There’s the sting of’t. That, I think,        &nbspHurts the most a thousandfold! To feel sudden, at a wink,        &nbspSome dear child we used to scold, Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease,        &nbspTeach and tumble as our own, All its curls about our knees,        &nbspRise up suddenly full-grown. Who could wonder such a sight Made a woman mad outright? Show me Michael with the sword Rather than such angels, Lord!