There were three stout pillars that held up all The weight and tradition of Wingate Hall. One was Cudjo and one was you And the third was the mistress, Mary Lou. Mary Lou Wingate, as slightly made And as hard to break as a rapier-blade. Bristol’s daughter and Wingate’s bride, Never well since the last child died But staring at pain with courteous eyes. When the pain outwits it, the body dies, Meanwhile the body bears the pain. She loved her hands and they made her vain, The tiny hands of her generation That gathered the reins of the whole plantation; The velvet sheathing the steel demurely In the trained, light grip that holds so surely.