Rain On A Grave

Clouds spout upon her         Their waters amain         In ruthless disdain, -     Her who but lately         Had shivered with pain     As at touch of dishonour     If there had lit on her     So coldly, so straightly         Such arrows of rain.     She who to shelter         Her delicate head     Would quicken and quicken         Each tentative tread     If drops chanced to pelt her         That summertime spills         In dust-paven rills     When thunder-clouds thicken         And birds close their bills.     Would that I lay there         And she were housed here!     Or better, together     Were folded away there     Exposed to one weather     We both, who would stray there     When sunny the day there,         Or evening was clear         At the prime of the year.     Soon will be growing         Green blades from her mound,     And daises be showing         Like stars on the ground,     Till she form part of them -     Ay the sweet heart of them,     Loved beyond measure     With a child's pleasure         All her life's round.     Jan. 31, 1913.