I KNOW that these poor rags of womanhood, -- This oaten pipe, whereon the wild winds play'd Making sad music, -- tatter'd and outfray'd, Cast off, play'd out, -- can hold no more of good, Of love, or song, or sense of sun and shade. What homely neighbors elbow me (hard by 'Neath the black yews) I know I shall not know, Nor take account of changing winds that blow, Shifting the golden arrow, set on high On the gray spire, nor mark who come and go. Yet would I lie in some familiar place, Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead, -- Somewhere, maybe, where friendly feet will tread, -- As if from out some little chink of space Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead. And though too sweet to deck a sepulchre Seem twinkling daisy-buds, and meadow grass; And so, would more than serve me, lest they pass Who fain would know what woman rested there, What her demeanor, or her story was, -- For these I would that on a sculptur'd stone (Fenced round with ironwork to keep secure) Should sleep a form with folded palms demure, In aspect like the dreamer that was gone, With these words carv'd, "@3I hop'd, but was not sure.@1" |