A Lady

THREE PORTRAITS

A LADY

Somehow, I cannot weep to see her dead.

There is an ordered peace about her now,

A graciousness that well becomes her-more

Than the dull fretful striving of her life.

Her little-girlhood, full of drudgery,

Her shy, pinched maidenhood, the endless round

Of ugly tasks a farmer's wife must do,

Fitted so ill her sensitive fine soul.

Of late, at twilight when I passed her gate,

I often saw her struggling with the weeds

That always seemed to choke her flower-beds.

Sometimes I heard her husband calling out,

"Better quit, Ma-you'll work yourself to death

A-fussin' over flowers-and they no good."

It may be that I fancy it-somehow

She seems a lady come into her own,

Delicately proud, at rest among her flowers.