Sunday, 23 June 2013
"The Sick Assailant" (1936) by Anna Wickham
I hit her in the face because she loved me.
It was the challenge of her faithfulness that moved me.
For she knew me, every impulse, every mood,
As if my veins had run with her heart's blood.
She knew my damned incontinence, my weakness,
Yet she forebore with her accursed meekness.
I could have loved her had she ever blamed me,
It was her sticky irritating patience shamed me.
I was tired-sick. It was her business to amuse me,
Her faith could only daunt me and confuse me.
She was a fine great wench, and well I knew
She was one good half panther, one half shrew,
Then why should my love, more than any other,
Induce in her the silly human Mother?
She would have nursed me, bathed me, fed me, carried me.
She'd have burned her soul to thaw me, she'd have married me.
I hit her in the face because she loved me,
It was her sticky irritating patience moved me.