  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As a flower might Give out to the cool night The warmth it drank in day-long light So wool and lawn From your soft skin withdrawn (Whereon they were assumed at dawn) Breathe the spent mood, Lost act and attitude, Of the small sweetness they endued.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, |
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