The Shroud

Death, I say, my heart is bowed

Unto thine,— O mother!

This red gown will make a shroud

Good as any other!

( I, that would not wait to wear

My own bridal things,

In a dress dark as my hair

Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came

Could not, could not wait,

In a gown as bright as flame

Held for them the gate. )

Death, I say, my heart is bowed

Unto thine,— O mother!

This red gown will make a shroud

Good as any other!