Footnotes
I carried my sorrow to Natures breast:
And, behold, her sky was the gladdest blue
And a laughing demon her breeze possessed!
How did I dream that Nature knew?
VI
Lips you were not anhungered for,
And those that won your praises,
A century hence will blossom out
In little purple daisies.
Eyes that smiled lightly into yours,
And eyes that frowned on you—
Ah, soon, not Love himself might know
The brown eyes from the blue.
Yes, even he will come to dust,
And even beauty passes,
That crumbling flesh may feed the growth
Of the hungry-rooted grasses.
VII
Behind the house is the millet plot,
And past the miller, the stile;
And then a hill where melilot
Grows with wild camomile.
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