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:

One 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 daisies 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.