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The Little Old Table

Creak, little wood thing, creak,
When I touch you with elbow or knee;
That is the way you speak
Of one who gave you to me!

You, little table, she brought -
Brought me with her own hand,
As she looked at me with a thought
That I did not understand.

Whoever owns it anon,
And hears it, will never know
What a history hangs upon
This creak from long ago.

-o0o-

The Gentleman's Second-hand Suit

Here it is hanging in the sun
By the pawn-shop door,
A dress-suit - all its revels done
Of heretofore.
Long drilled to the waltzer’s swing and sway,
As its tokens show;
What it has seen, what it could say
If it did but know!

The sleeve bears still a print of powder
Rubbed from her arms
When she warmed up as the notes swelled louder
And livened her charms -
Or rather theirs, for beauties many
Leant there, no doubt,
Leaving these tell-tale traces when he
Spun them about.

Its cut seems rather in bygone style
On looking close,
So it mayn’t have bent it for some while
To the dancing pose;
Anyhow, often within its clasp
Fair partners hung,
Assenting to the wearer’s grasp
With soft sweet tongue.

Where is, alas, the gentleman
Who wore this suit?
And where are his ladies? Tell none can;
Gossip is mute.
Some of them may forget him quite
Who smudged his sleeve,
Some think of a wild and whirling night
With him, and grieve.

-o0o-

 Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?

”Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My Loved one? - planting rue?”
- “No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
It cannot hurt her now, he said,
That I should not be true.”

“Then who is digging on my grave?
My nearest dearest kin?”
“Ah, no: they sit and think, What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death’s gin.”

“But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? - prodding sly?”
- “Nay, when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.”

“Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say, since I have not guessed!”
- “O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?”


“Ah, yes! YOU dig upon my grave. . .
Why flashed it not on me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog’s fidelity!”

“Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry but I quite forgot
It was your resting-place.”

-o0o-

 If It's Ever Spring Again

If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I when
Down the moor-cock splashed, and hen,
Seeing me not, amid their flounder,
Standing with my arm around her;
If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I then.

If it's ever summertime,
Summertime,
With the hay crop at the prime,
And the cuckoos - two - in rhyme,
As they used to be, or seemed to,
We shall do as long we've dreamed to,
If it's ever summertime,
Summertime,
With the hay, and bees achime.
Leave this in the meantime       


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