My trees are amiably arrayed In pattern on the dappled sky, And I may sit in filtered shade And watch the tidy years go by. And I may amble pleasantly And hear my neighbors list their bones And click my tongue in sympathy, And count the cracks in paving stones. My door is grave in oaken strength, The cool of linen calms my bed, And there at night I stretch my length And envy no one but the dead. _The Dramatists_ A string of shiny days we had, A spotless sky, a yellow sun; And neither you nor I was sad When that was through and done. But when, one day, a boy comes by And pleads me with your happiest vow, "There was a lad I knew--" I'll sigh; "I do not know him now." And when another girl shall pass And speak a little name I said, Then you will say "There was a lass-- I wonder is she dead." And each of us will sigh, and start A-talking of a faded year, And lay a hand above a heart, And dry a pretty tear. _August_ When my eyes are weeds, And my lips are petals, spinning Down the wind that has beginning Where the crumpled beeches start In a fringe of salty reeds; When my arms are elder-bushes, And the rangy lilac pushes Upward, upward through my heart; Summer, do your worst! Light your tinsel moon, and call on Your performing stars to fall on Headlong through your paper sky; Nevermore shall I be cursed By a flushed and amorous slattern, With her dusty laces' pattern Trailing, as she straggles by. _The White Lady_ I cannot rest, I cannot rest In strait and shiny wood, 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 drowsy dead! _I Know I Have Been Happiest_ I know I have been happiest at your side; But what is done, is done, and all's to be. And small the good, to linger dolefully,-- Gaily it lived, and gallantly it died. I will not make you songs of hearts denied, And you, being man, would have no tears of me, And should I offer you fidelity, You'd be, I think, a little terrified. Yet this the need of woman, this her curse: To range her little gifts, and give, and give, Because the throb of giving's sweet to bear. To you, who never begged me vows or verse, My gift shall be my absence, while I live; But after that, my dear, I cannot swear. _Testament_