Afterwards

I know that these poor rags of womanhood —
This oaten pipe whereon the wild winds play'd
Making sad music, — tatter'd and outfray'd,
Cast off, play'd out — can hold no more of good,
Of love or song, or sense of sun and shade.

What homely neighbours elbow me (hard by
'Neath the black yews) I know I shall not know,
Nor take account of changing winds that blow
Shifting the golden arrow, set on high
On the gray spire, nor mark who come and go.

Yet would I lie in some familiar place,
Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead, —
Somewhere, may be, where friendly feet will tread, -
As if from out some little chink of space
Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead.

And tho' too sweet to deck a sepulchre
Seem twinkling daisy-buds and meadow grass;
And so would more than serve me, lest they pass
Who fain would know what woman rested there,
What her demeanour or her story was, —

For there I would that on a sculptured stone
(Fenced round with iron-work to keep secure)
Should sleep a form with folded palms demure,
In aspect like the dreamer that was gone,
With these words carved, '/ hoped, but was not sure.'