The book, the box on mantle laid,
The shells in a pale row,
Are those of some dim little maid,
A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her;
She goes and comes again;
And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbors walk,
Among the blossoms tall;
Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,
Of Lydia not at all.
Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]
AFTER
Oh, the littles that remain!
Scent of mint out in the lane;
Flare of window, sound of bees;—
These, but these.
Three times sitting down to bread;
One time climbing up to bed;
Table-setting o'er and o'er;
Drying herbs for winter's store;
This thing; that thing;—nothing more.
But just now out in the lane,
Oh, the scent of mint was plain!
Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]