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From your soft skin withdrawn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)
Breathe the spent mood,
Lost act and attitude,
Of the small sweetness they endued.
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,
And do desire
Your life may still respire
Such sweetness as your cast attire.