Posthumous Respectability

There the wild berries grew
There you would find her,
Old skirt dragging down,
Hair fit to blind her,

Wet with the sopping fogs,
Withered with sun,
Hiding among the rocks
From everyone,

Taming the great wild geese
In wind-storms strayed,
Selling about the town
The eggs they laid,

Facing on lonely moors,
The spite of witches,
Sighting Square Joe's bad head
Poked out of ditches,

Living as wild beasts live,
Dying alone—
But leaving money enough
For a headstone!
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