His little hat of leghorn, temptingly
Laid by his long sleeved apron, ready for
His gamboling upon the sunny lawn.
There hangs the coat her husband wore, when last
He walk’d with her, and with his little boy.
There hangs his hat, dress’d with its weed of crape,
Worn for her brother, who had died before.
To each of these she goes, and lays her hand
Upon them—takes them down, and fancies how
They look’d upon the wearer—kisses them—