But he cheered me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way;
Never jealous,—not he: we had many a happy year:
And he died, and I could not weep,—my own time seemed so near.
But I wished it had been God’s will that I, too, then could have died:
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side;
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don’t forget:
But as for the children, Annie, they are all about me yet.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie, who left me at two;
Patter she goes, my own little Annie,—an Annie like you.