At my door's another lad; Here's his flower in my hair. If he see me pale and sad, Will he see me fair? I sit looking at the floor. Little will I think or say If he seek another door; Even if he stay. _Rainy Night_ Ghosts of all my lovely sins, Who attend too well my pillow, Gay the wanton rain begins; Hide the limp and tearful willow, Turn aside your eyes and ears, Trail away your robes of sorrow. You shall have my further years,-- You shall walk with me to-morrow. I am sister to the rain; Fey and sudden and unholy, Petulant at the windowpane, Quickly lost, remembered slowly. I have lived with shades, a shade; I am hung with graveyard flowers. Let me be to-night arrayed In the silver of the showers. Every fragile thing shall rust; When another April passes I may be a furry dust, Sifting through the brittle grasses. All sweet sins shall be forgot Who will live to tell their siring? Hear me now, nor let me rot Wistful still, and still aspiring. Ghosts of dear temptations, heed; I am frail, be you forgiving. See you not that I have need To be living with the living? Sail, to-night, the Styx's breast; Glide among the dim processions Of the exquisite unblest. Spirits of my shared transgressions. Roam with young Persephone, Plucking poppies for your slumber... With the morrow, there shall be One more wraith among your number. _For a Sad Lady_ And let her loves, when she is dead, Write this above her bones: "No more she lives to give us bread Who asked her only stones." _Recurrence_ We shall have our little day. Take my hand and travel still Round and round the little way, Up and down the little hill. It is good to love again; Scan the renovated skies, Dip and drive the idling pen, Sweetly tint the paling lies. Trace the dripping, piercèd heart, Speak the fair, insistent verse, Vow to God, and slip apart, Little better, little worse. Would we need not know before How shall end this prettiness; One of us must love the more, One of us shall love the less. Thus it is, and so it goes; We shall have our day, my dear. Where, unwilling, dies the rose Buds the new, another year. _Story of Mrs. W_---- My garden blossoms pink and white, A place of decorous murmuring Where I am safe from August night And cannot feel the knife of spring. And I may walk the pretty place Before the curtsying hollyhocks And laundered daisies, round of face-- Good little girls, in party frocks.