| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895. |
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| Afterwards |
| | | Lady Mary Montgomerie Currie (b. 184–) |
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| 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. | 5 |
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| What homely neighbors 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. | 10 |
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| Yet would I lie in some familiar place, | |
| Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead,— | |
| Somewhere, maybe, where friendly feet will tread,— | |
| As if from out some little chink of space | |
| Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead. | 15 |
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| And though 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 demeanor, or her story was,— | 20 |
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| For these I would that on a sculptur’d stone | |
| (Fenced round with ironwork to keep secure) | |
| Should sleep a form with folded palms demure, | |
| In aspect like the dreamer that was gone, | |
| With these words carv’d, “I hop’d, but was not sure.” | 25 |
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