The Legacy

She died when I was young,

And I myself am old now;

And still her small, few shillings come,

Like shoots from a severed bough.

Though they have dwindled, year by year,

Can I despise these tiny gains-

Worth little more than children’s weeds

Picked in the woods and kissed in lanes?

Not while I think her spirit lives

And, close beside me, understands

The grateful love-so long delayed-

In the kiss on her ghostly hands.