The Shroud

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
   Unto thine,—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
   Good as any other!

(I, that would not wait to wear
   My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
   Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came
   Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as bright as flame
   Held for them the gate. )

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
   Unto thine,—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
   Good as any other!