All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! Ere spring was going--ah! spring is gone! And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,-- Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on. All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, Browned at the edges, turned in a day; And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way! _The Shroud_ Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! (I, that would not wait to wear My own bridal things, In a dress dark as my hair Made my answerings. I, to-night, that till he came Could not, could not wait, In a gown as bright as flame Held for them the gate.) Death, I say, my heart is bowed Unto thine,--O mother! This red gown will make a shroud Good as any other! _The Dream_ Love, if I weep it will not matter, And if you laugh I shall not care; Foolish am I to think about it, But it is good to feel you there. Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,-- White and awful the moonlight reached Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere, There was a shutter loose,--it screeched! Swung in the wind,--and no wind blowing!-- I was afraid, and turned to you, Put out my hand to you for comfort,-- And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew, Under my hand the moonlight lay! Love, if you laugh I shall not care, But if I weep it will not matter,-- Ah, it is good to feel you there! _Indifference_ I said,--for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,-- “I’ll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in bed; But I’ll never leave my pillow, though there be some As would let him in--and take him in with tears!” I said. I lay,--for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,-- I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep; And he found me at my window with my big cloak on, All sorry with the tears some folks might weep! _Witch-Wife_ She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of coloured beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine. _Blight_ Hard seeds of hate I planted That should by now be grown,-- Rough stalks, and from thick stamens A poisonous pollen blown, And odours rank, unbreathable, From dark corollas thrown! At dawn from my damp garden I shook the chilly dew; The thin boughs locked behind me That sprang to let me through; The blossoms slept,--I sought a place Where nothing lovely grew.