With him for a sire and her for a dam,
What should I be but just what I am?

She Is Overheard Singing

Oh, Prue she has a patient man,
  And Joan a gentle lover,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—­
  But my true love’s a rover!

Mig, her man’s as good as cheese
  And honest as a briar,
Sue tells her love what he’s thinking of,—­
  But my dear lad’s a liar!

Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
  Are thick with Mig and Joan! 
They bite their threads and shake their heads
  And gnaw my name like a bone;

And Prue says, “Mine’s a patient man,
  As never snaps me up,”
And Agatha, “Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,
  Could live content in a cup;”

Sue’s man’s mind is like good jell—­
  All one colour, and clear —­
And Mig’s no call to think at all
  What’s to come next year,

While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
  That’s troubled with that and this;—­
But they all would give the life they live
  For a look from the man I kiss!

Cold he slants his eyes about,
  And few enough’s his choice,—­
Though he’d slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
  Or a beggar with knots in her voice,—­

And Agatha will turn awake
  While her good man sleeps sound,
And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
  Will hear the clock strike round,

For Prue she has a patient man,
  As asks not when or why,
And Mig and Sue have naught to do
  But peep who’s passing by,

Joan is paired with a putterer
  That bastes and tastes and salts,
And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,—­
  But my true love is false!

The Prisoner

All right,
Go ahead! 
What’s in a name? 
I guess I’ll be locked into
As much as I’m locked out of!

The Unexplorer

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore. 
I asked my mother once—­she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man’s door. 
(That’s why I have not traveled more.)

Grown-up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

The Penitent

I had a little Sorrow,
  Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
  And shut us all within;
And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I,
  “And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
  And think how bad I’ve been!”

Alas for pious planning—­
  It mattered not a whit! 
As far as gloom went in that room,
  The lamp might have been lit! 
My little Sorrow would not weep,
  My little Sin would go to sleep—­
To save my soul I could not keep
  My graceless mind on it!