Love has gone a-rocketing. That is not the worst; I could do without the thing, And not be the first. Joy has gone the way it came. That is nothing new; I could get along the same,-- Many people do. Dig for me the narrow bed, Now I am bereft. All my pretty hates are dead, And what have I left? _The Satin Dress_ Needle, needle, dip and dart, Thrusting up and down, Where's the man could ease a heart Like a satin gown? See the stitches curve and crawl Round the cunning seams-- Patterns thin and sweet and small As a lady's dreams. Wantons go in bright brocades; Brides in organdie; Gingham's for the plighted maid; Satin's for the free! Wool's to line a miser's chest; Crape's to calm the old; Velvet hides an empty breast; Satin's for the bold! Lawn is for a bishop's yoke; Linen's for a nun; Satin is for wiser folk-- Would the dress were done! Satin glows in candle-light-- Satin's for the proud! They will say who watch at night, "What a fine shroud!" _Somebody's Song_ This is what I vow; He shall have my heart to keep; Sweetly will we stir and sleep, All the years, as now. Swift the measured sands may run; Love like this is never done; He and I are welded one: This is what I vow. This is what I pray: Keep him by me tenderly; Keep him sweet in pride of me, Ever and a day; Keep me from the old distress; Let me, for our happiness, Be the one to love the less: This is what I pray. This is what I know: Lovers' oaths are thin as rain; Love's a harbinger of pain-- Would it were not so! Ever is my heart a-thirst, Ever is my love accurst; He is neither last nor first-- This is what I know. _Anecdote_ So silent I when Love was by He yawned, and turned away; But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings, I have so much to say. _Braggart_ The days will rally, wreathing Their crazy tarantelle; And you must go on breathing, But I'll be safe in hell. Like January weather, The years will bite and smart, And pull your bones together To wrap your chattering heart. The pretty stuff you're made of Will crack and crease and dry. The thing you are afraid of Will look from every eye. You will go faltering after The bright, imperious line, And split your throat on laughter, And burn your eyes with brine. You will be frail and musty With peering, furtive head, Whilst I am young and lusty Among the roaring dead. _Epitaph for a Darling Lady_