Rapt there alone
In the transport of talking so
In such a place, there was nothing to let them know
What hours had flown.
And the die thrown
By them heedlessly there, the dent
It was to cut in their encompassment,
Were, too, unknown.
It might have strown
Their zest with qualms to see,
As in a glass, Time toss their history
From zone to zone!
THE PINK FROCK
“O my pretty pink frock,
I sha’n’t be able to wear it!
Why is he dying just now?
I hardly can bear it!
“He might have contrived to live on;
But they say there’s no hope whatever:
And must I shut myself up,
And go out never?
“O my pretty pink frock,
Puff-sleeved and accordion-pleated!
He might have passed in July,
And not so cheated!”
TRANSFORMATIONS
Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.
These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.