His books, his toys, the clothes he wore,
And cry, "Once more, to me, _once_ more!"

Then take, from me, this simple verse,
That you may know what I rehearse--
A grief--your and my Universe!




BEFORE THE MIRROR.


Now like the Lady of Shalott,
I dwell within an empty room,
And through the day and through the night
I sit before an ancient loom.

And like the Lady of Shalott
I look into a mirror wide,
Where shadows come, and shadows go,
And ply my shuttle as they glide.

Not as she wove the yellow wool,
Ulysses' wife, Penelope;
By day a queen among her maids,
But in the night a woman, she,

Who, creeping from her lonely couch,
Unraveled all the slender wool;