In Weatherbury Stocks

I sit here in these stocks,
And Saint-Mary’s moans eleven;
The sky is dark and cold:
I would I were in heaven!

“What footsteps do I hear?
Ah, you do not forget,
My Sophy! O, my dear,
We may be happy yet!

“But —. Mother, is’t your voice?
You who have come to me? —
It did not cross my thought:
I was thinking it was she.”

“She! Foolish simple son!
She says: ‘I’ve finished quite
With him or any one
Put in the stocks to-night.’”

“She’s gone to Blooms-End dance,
And will not come back yet:
Her new man sees his chance,
And is teaching her to forget.

“Jim, think no other woman
To such a fellow is true
But the mother you have grieved so,
Or cares for one like you!”