Among the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths.
"And putting down my hand between the beams
I felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear:
A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams.
Where spiders had had nests for many a year.
It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear,
Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's life
Was not her own while she was father's wife.
"There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint.
March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three,