She said: Would I might sleep
With the bulbs I plant so deep,
Forgetting all the long Winter
That I must awake and weep.
A dreamless sleepy-head,
Forgetting my Dear was dead;
Nothing caring nor knowing
While the dark season sped.
I am so young, so young,
And the years stretch out so long,
The weeks and the months so endless;
The long life does me wrong.
I would grow old and grey,
As though ’twere only a day,
Till his voice came calling, calling
To me under the clay.
Then I should spring to the sun,
Life done with, Life begun,
And run where he waited to lift me
Over the threshold stone.
She sighed in the Autumn weather: —
Would I and the bulbs together,
For Spring lay quietly waiting;
I and the bulbs together.