Trysts

MY father and my mother sleep
Under the snow and dead rose-stem.
Not once in many months I keep
A tryst in that still place with them.

Their faces from my walls look out.
Not many times I sigh and stay
To speak with them, or turn about,
Whispering, ‘How excellent were they!5

But green-speared, gold-tubed daffodils
Make my cold windows shout with spring.
Leaning across the lovely sills.
My mother helps my harvesting.

And when I sit in the sun and mend.
She plies the needle, telling me
Deep thoughts that make me more her friend
Than little foolish daughters be.

In church, the high dim pulpit blurs.
My father’s eyes burn dark and proud.
I know their dreams. His spirit stirs,
Unspent across the careless crowd. . . .

My father and my mother sleep
Under the snow and dead rose-stem.
They do not wonder why I keep
No tryst, in that still place with them.

Smiling, they pass and touch my hand.
‘Child! child! — At last you understand!’