Page:Last poems (IA lastpoems00brow).pdf/17



! Thirteen a month ago! Short and narrow her life's walk; Lover's love she could not know Even by a dream or talk: Too young to be glad of youth, Missing honour, labour, rest, And the warmth of a babe's mouth At the blossom of her breast. Must you pity her for this And for all the loss it is, You, her mother, with wet face, Having had all in your case?

Just so young but yesternight, Now she is as old as death.