Whenever he touches the broken latch,
He thinks: “How often she asked me,
And how careless I was not to mend it!”
And smiles and sighs; then recalls
How we planted the box-border together,
Knee to knee in the wet, one November ...
And the clove-pinks—
Here is the window.
They’ve put the green lamp on the table,
Where his books lie, heaped as of old—