The speaker is a widow moving through ordinary chores: the yard, the old sycamore, larkspurs by the door, a bed to make, a dress for her tall daughter. The wind is rough enough to knock down clothes-props, but she keeps to her routine. Then the thought of her husband interrupts everything. She wishes she could have him back as he was—young, lively, sitting in his chair, speaking softly about love and lasting things. The final lines are desperate: she tells someone to call him from his grave, knowing he lies fast. The mood is quiet on the surface but pierced by sudden grief and longing. Domestic life continues, yet it feels heavy because the person she most wants to share it with is gone.
The Widow — Summary
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!