sorry poem

to what shall a woman liken her beloved
if i had known how narrow a prison is love
i burn no incense
i love the old melodious lays
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
uplifting, as the wind blew
of sun nor stars
lo! 'tis a gala night
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
shadows lay along broadway
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
when i returned at sunset