And in the hard wee gardens Such pleasant men would hoe: “Sir, may we touch the little girl’s hair?”-- It was so red, you know. They cut me colored asters With shears so sharp and neat, They brought me grapes and plums and pears And pretty cakes to eat. And out of all the windows, No matter where we went, The merriest eyes would follow me And make me compliment. There were a thousand windows, All latticed up and down. And up to all the windows, When we went back to town, The queer folk put their faces, As gentle as could be; “Come again, little girl!” they called, and I Called back, “You come see me!” THE SPRING AND THE FALL In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bark was wet. I see them yet, in the spring of the year. He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach That was out of the way and hard to reach. In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The rooks went up with a raucous trill. I hear them still, in the fall of the year. He laughed at all I dared to praise, And broke my heart, in little ways. Year be springing or year be falling, The bark will drip and the birds be calling. There’s much that’s fine to see and hear In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year. ’Tis not love’s going hurts my days, But that it went in little ways. THE CURSE Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows across the sea. And I shall meet a fisherman Out of Capri, And he will say, seeing me, “What a strange thing! Like a fish’s scale or a Butterfly’s wing.” Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows away the fog. And I shall meet a farmer boy Leaping through the bog, And he will say, seeing me, “What a strange thing! Like a peat-ash or a Butterfly’s wing.” And I shall blow to your house And, sucked against the pane, See you take your sewing up And lay it down again. And you will say, seeing me, “What a strange thing! Like a plum petal or a Butterfly’s wing.” And none at all will know me That knew me well before. But I will settle at the root That climbs about your door, And fishermen and farmers May see me and forget, But I’ll be a bitter berry In your brewing yet. KEEN Weep him dead and mourn as you may, Me, I sing as I must: Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust! Blessed be Death, that took my love And buried him in the sea, Where never a lie nor a bitter word Will out of his mouth at me. This I have to hold to my heart, This to take by the hand: Sweet we were for a summer month As the sun on the dry white sand; Mild we were for a summer month As the wind from over the weirs. And blessed be Death, that hushed with salt The harsh and slovenly years! Who builds her a house with love for timber Builds her a house of foam. And I’d rather be bride to a lad gone down Than widow to one safe home. THE BETROTHAL