Aye, ’tis a curious fancy-- But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes A long time ago. _Ashes of Life_ Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will,--and would that night were here! But ah!--to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again!--with twilight near! Love has gone and left me and I don’t know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I’m through,-- There’s little use in anything as far as I can see. Love has gone and left me,--and the neighbours knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,-- And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There’s this little street and this little house. _The Little Ghost_ I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked. And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone-- I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on. By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown’s white folds among. I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do--and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow! She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled--there was no hint Of sadness in her face. She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go. And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused--then opened and passed through A gate that once was there. _Kin to Sorrow_ Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door-- Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow’s hand? Marigolds around the step And rosemary stand, And then comes Sorrow-- And what does Sorrow care For the rosemary Or the marigolds there? Am I kin to Sorrow? Are we kin? That so oft upon my door-- _Oh, come in!_ _Three Songs of Shattering_ I The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,--it must have been Very pretty. II Let the little birds sing; Let the little lambs play; Spring is here; and so ’tis spring;-- But not in the old way! I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew; There you lifted up your face, And blossoms covered you. If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so ’tis spring-- But not in the old way! III