394
THREE POEMS
Until she reflects that he might have returned from overseas and beaten her according to custom.
The thought purges her of envy, and she sprinkles woebegone, contented tears
On the bell-glass of artificial flowers she lays on his grave;
It is a beautiful offering and has been much admired.
With a blissful sense of bereavement, she bows her head over the bell-glass,
Then rises to totter to the gate on the arm of a friend who has offered to give her a lift home.
In her attic room, she carefully folds the bombasine,
Whispering to herself: "It was a beautiful Decoration Day."
