Lament

How she would have loved     A party to-day! -     Bright-hatted and gloved,     With table and tray     And chairs on the lawn     Her smiles would have shone     With welcomings . . . But     She is shut, she is shut         From friendship's spell         In the jailing shell         Of her tiny cell.     Or she would have reigned     At a dinner to-night     With ardours unfeigned,     And a generous delight;     All in her abode     She'd have freely bestowed     On her guests . . . But alas,     She is shut under grass         Where no cups flow,         Powerless to know         That it might be so.     And she would have sought     With a child's eager glance     The shy snowdrops brought     By the new year's advance,     And peered in the rime     Of Candlemas-time     For crocuses . . . chanced     It that she were not tranced         From sights she loved best;         Wholly possessed         By an infinite rest!     And we are here staying     Amid these stale things     Who care not for gaying,     And those junketings     That used so to joy her,     And never to cloy her     As us they cloy! . . . But     She is shut, she is shut         From the cheer of them, dead         To all done and said         In a yew-arched bed.