Lament
How she would have lovedA party to-day!—Bright-hatted and gloved,With table and trayAnd chairs on the lawnHer smiles would have shoneWith welcomings . . . ButShe is shut, she is shutFrom friendship’s spellIn the jailing shellOf her tiny cell.
Or she would have reignedAt a dinner to-nightWith ardours unfeigned,And a generous delight;All in her abodeShe’d have freely bestowedOn her guests . . . But alas,She is shut under grassWhere no cups flow,Powerless to knowThat it might be so.
And she would have soughtWith a child’s eager glanceThe shy snowdrops broughtBy the new year’s advance,And peered in the rimeOf Candlemas-timeFor crocuses . . . chancedIt that she were not trancedFrom sights she loved best;Wholly possessedBy an infinite rest!
And we are here stayingAmid these stale thingsWho care not for gaying,And those junketingsThat used so to joy her,And never to cloy herAs us they cloy! . . . ButShe is shut, she is shutFrom the cheer of them, deadTo all done and saidIn a yew-arched bed.
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