Classic Poem

I KNOW that these poor rags of womanhood, —
— This oaten pipe, whereon the wild winds played
— Making sad music, — tattered and outfrayed,
Cast off, played out, — can hold no more of good,
— Of love, or song, or sense of sun and shade.

What homely neighbors elbow me (hard by
— 'Neath the black yews) I know I shall not know,
— Nor take account of changing winds that blow,
Shifting the golden arrow, set on high
— On the gray spire, nor mark who come and go.

Yet would I lie in some familiar place,
— Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead, —
— Somewhere, may be, where friendly feet will tread. —
As if from out some little chink of space
— Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead.

And though too sweet to deck a sepulcher
— Seem twinkling daisy-buds and meadow-grass;
— And so would more than serve me, lest they pass
Who fain would know what woman rested there,
— What her demeanor, or her story was, —

For these I would that on a sculptured stone
— (Fenced round with ironwork to keep secure)
— Should sleep a form with folded palms demure,
In aspect like the dreamer that was gone,
— With these words carved, " I hoped, but was not sure "