She died when I was wild and young, And I myself am old by now; And still her small, few shillings come, Like shoots from a severed bough. Though they have dwindled, year by year, Can I despise these tiny gains – Worth little more than children's weeds Picked in the woods and kissed in lanes? Not while I think her spirit lives And, close beside me, understands The grateful love – so long delayed – In the kiss on her ghostly hands. |