Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/164



walks in a lonely garden On the path her feet have made, With high-heeled shoes, gold-buckled. And gown of a flowered brocade;

The hair that falls on her shoulders, Half-held with a ribbon tie, Once glowed like the wheat in autumn. Now grey as a winter sky.

Time on her brow with rough fingers Writes record of smiles and tears; Her mind, like a golden timepiece, He stopped in the long past years.

At the foot of the lonely garden, She comes to the trysting-place She knew of old, there she lingers, A blush on her withered face.

The children out on the common, They climb to the garden wall. And laugh, “He will come to-morrow!” Who never will come at all.

And often over our sewing, As I and my neighbour sit We gossip over this story That never had end to it,

Rh