Rain on a Grave
Clouds spout upon herTheir waters amainIn ruthless disdain,—Her who but latelyHad shivered with painAs at touch of dishonourIf there had lit on herSo coldly, so straightlySuch arrows of rain.
She who to shelterHer delicate headWould quicken and quickenEach tentative treadIf drops chanced to pelt herThat summertime spillsIn dust-paven rillsWhen thunder-clouds thickenAnd birds close their bills.
Would that I lay thereAnd she were housed here!Or better, togetherWere folded away thereExposed to one weatherWe both,—who would stray thereWhen sunny the day there,Or evening was clearAt the prime of the year.
Soon will be growingGreen blades from her mound,And daises be showingLike stars on the ground,Till she form part of them—Ay—the sweet heart of them,Loved beyond measureWith a child’s pleasureAll her life’s round.
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