Poetry Archives

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
  Unto thine,—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
  Good as any other!

(I, that would not wait to wear
  My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
  Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came
  Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as bright as flame
  Held for them the gate.)

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
  Unto thine,—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
  Good as any other!