Poetry Archives

When you come home I’ll not be round
          To welcome you.
They’ll take you to a grassy mound
          So neat and new;
Where I’ll be sleeping—O so sound!
          The ages through.

I’ll not be round to broom the hearth,
          To feed the chicks;
And in the wee room of your birth
          Your bed to fix;
Rose room that knew your baby mirth
          Your tiny tricks.

I’ll not be round . . . The garden still
          With bees will hum;
To cheerful you the throstle’s bill
          Will not be dumb;
The rambler rose will overspill
          When you will come.

Bird, bee and bloom, they’ll greet you all
          With scented sound;
Yet though the joy of your footfall
          Will thrill the ground
Your mother with her old grey shawl—
          Will not be round.