XXII.

Where every bird is bold to go,
And bees abashless play,
The foreigner before he knocks
Must thrust the tears away.

XXIII.

The grave my little cottage is,
Where, keeping house for thee,
I make my parlor orderly,
And lay the marble tea,

For two divided, briefly,
A cycle, it may be,
Till everlasting life unite
In strong society.

This was in the white of the year,
That was in the green,
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As daisies now to be seen.

Looking back is best that is left,
Or if it be before,
Retrospection is prospect's half,
Sometimes almost more.

Sweet hours have perished here;
This is a mighty room;
Within its precincts hopes have played, —
Now shadows in the tomb.