The Widow

The road is left; the yard; And the old sycamore; Larkspurs tall in the grass Just at the door; And the thick gusty wind that breaks The clothes-props down; She has a bed to make; for her tall girl A buff-sprigged gown.

But oh, to have him back again Flashing and young; To sit in yonder chair, And with delicate tongue To talk to her of love, And things that last — Go call him from his grave Where he lies fast!