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Where I have lost, I softer tread—
I sow sweet flower from garden bed—
I pause above that vanished head
And mourn.
Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word—
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
Though stone!
When I have lost, you’ll know by this—
A Bonnet black—A dusk surplice—
A little tremor in my voice
Like this!
Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
Next Bliss!
