I see us flit, as here I sit
With wet-fring'd eyes,
And never rime or reason to it—
Like a maze of flies!
The boys would jump and catch your shoulder
Just for the fun of it—
They tease you worse as you grow older
Because you want none of it.
I hear them call their saucy names—
Mine was Maypole Nance;
I see our windy bickering games,
Half like a dance;
The opening and closing ring
Of pinafored girls,
And the wind that makes the cheek to sting
Blowing back their curls!
There in the midst is Sally Waters,
As it might be I,
With the idle song of Sons and Daughters
Drifting out and by
Sons and daughters! Break, break,
Heart, if you can—
How have they taught us treat sons and daughters
Since I began?
viii
There is a bank that always gets
The noon sun full;
There we'd hunt for violets
After morning school.
White and blue we hunted them
In the moss, and gave them,
Dropping-tir'd and short in stem,
To Mother. She must have them.
Primrose-mornings in the copse,
Autumn berrying
Where the dew for ever stops,
And the serrying,
Clinging shrouds of gossamers
Glue your eyes together;
Gleaning after harvesters
In the mild blue weather—
Life so full of bud and blossom,
Fallen like a tree!
Who gave me a woman's bosom—
And who has robb'd me?