My woven hands upon my breast–
The dead are all so good!
The earth is cool across their eyes;
They lie there quietly.
But I am neither old nor wise;
They do not welcome me.
Where never I walked alone before,
I wander in the weeds;
And people scream and bar the door,
And rattle at their beads.
We cannot rest, we never rest
Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best–
Who hate the pompous dead!
I heartily invite such birdsTo come outside and say those words!
This little chair of scrubbed and sturdy deal,This easy book, this fire, sedate and slow.And I shall stay with them, nor cry the woeOf wounds across my breast that do not heal;Nor wish that Beauty drew a duller steel,Since I am sworn to meet her as a foe.It may be, when the devil’s own time…
I never said they feed my heart,But still they pass my time.
Love’s a trodden lane to woe,Love’s a path to misery.This I know, and knew before,This I tell you, of my years:Hide your heart, and lock your door.Hell’s afloat in lovers’ tears.Give your heart, and toss and moan;What a pretty fool you look!I am sage, who sit alone;Here’s my wool, and here’s my book.Look! A lad’s…
My plume on high, my flag unfurled,I rode away to right the world.‘Come out, you dogs, and fight!’ said I,And wept there was but once to die.But I am old; and good and badAre woven in a crazy plaid.I sit and say, ‘The world is so;And he is wise who lets it go.A battle lost,…
But need you try to black my eyeIn wishing me farewell.Though I admit an edged witIn woe is warranted,May I be frank? . . . Such words as ‘-‘Are better left unsaid.There’s rosemary for you and me;But is it usual, dear,To hire a man, and fill a vanBy way of souvenir?
