In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." Now he is dead. In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for? Richard Cory. [Edwin Arlington Robinson] Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich, -- yes, richer than a king, -- And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. Of One Self-Slain. [Charles Hanson Towne] When he went blundering back to God, His songs half written, his work half done, Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod, What hills of peace or pain he won? I hope God smiled and took his hand, And said, "Poor truant, passionate fool! Life's book is hard to understand: Why couldst thou not remain at school?" The Silent Folk. [Charles Wharton Stork] Oh, praise me not the silent folk; To me they only seem Like leafless, bird-abandoned oak And muffled, frozen stream. I want the leaves to talk and tell The joy that's in the tree, And water-nymphs to weave a spell Of pixie melody. Your silent folk may be sincere, But still, when all is said, We have to grant they're rather drear, -- And maybe, too, they're dead. Convention. [Agnes Lee] The snow is lying very deep. My house is sheltered from the blast. I hear each muffled step outside, I hear each voice go past. But I'll not venture in the drift Out of this bright security, Till enough footsteps come and go To make a path for me. Mad Blake. [William Rose Benet]