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 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.