THE PETALS
Yourself in bed
(My lovely Drowsy-head)
Your garments lie like petals shed
Upon the floor
Whose carpet is strewn o’er
With little things that late you wore.
For the morrow’s wear
I fold them neat and fair
And lay them on the nursery chair;
And round them lie
Airs of the hours that die
With all their stored-up fragrancy.
As a flower might
Give out to the cool night
The warmth it drank in day-long light
So wool and lawn
From your soft skin withdrawn
(Whereon they were assumed at dawn)
Ere all turn cold
No garment that I hold
But shakes a vision from its fold
Of little feet
That vainly would be fleet,
Tangled about with meadow-sweet,
And of bent knees
When Betsey kneeling sees,
In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.
Such things I see
Folding your clothes, which be
Weeds of the dead day’s comedy.
The while I pray
Your part may be alway
So simple and so good to play,