The Widow

The road is left; the yard;
And the old sycamore;
Larkspurs tall in the grass
Just at the door;

And the thick gusty wind that breaks
The clothes-props down;
She has a bed to make; for her tall girl
A buff-sprigged gown.

But oh, to have him back again
Flashing and young;
To sit in yonder chair,
And with delicate tongue

To talk to her of love,
And things that last—
Go call him from his grave
Where he lies fast!