The Widow

Out of the wind and out of the rain, 
Owen, come to nay heart again; 
Close though your grave-clothes wrap you round. 
Come from your chamber underground. 
Over your grave I lean and cry 
"Waken, beloved, and come. 'Tis I! 
The one free day for the dead is here. 
Wake for me, call to me, come to me, Dear." 

Near your head though the rose-root grows 
Out in the free air lifts the rose. 
Breathing sweetness that's like a pain — 
Owen, come to me once again. 
Only one rose has borne for you 
Fervent sunlight and frosty dew; 
My sorrow has blossomed in leaves of red 
When the other roses are shrunk and dead. 

Deep is your grave, and dark and warm? 
Come to me, love, through the night of storm, 
I'm here in the dark, I'm here in the rain, 
Owen, come to me once again. 
The widow's curch from my yellow hair 
I've put aside, and my head is bare. 
I have set a flower in my breast-knots white, 
A flower with a thorn like all delight. 

There is no light in our quiet room 
Save the fire that mingles a gleam with a gloom, 
A posy of furze by the bed I've set — 
That you may remember and I forget- 
That you may remember the golden day 
When we kissed 'mid the gorse in the heart of May, 
That I may forget in your arms, my Dear, 
The empty grave and the day drawing near. 

My doors stand open towards the night, 
The red fire calls you with leaping light:
Your old place waits of your coming fain: 
Owen, come to your wife again. 
Or if you are weary, and warm you lie, 
Let your door stand open to let me by 
And close in your arms, for our great love's sake, 
Let me lie and slumber and never wake.