She looked at her neighbour's house in the light of the waning day -
A shower of rice on the steps, and the shreds of a bride's bouquet.
And then she drew the shade, to shut out the growing gloom,
But she shut it into her heart instead. ( Was that a voice in the room? )
‘ My neighbour is sad,’ she sighed,‘ like the mother bird who sees
The last of her brood fly out of the nest to make its home in the trees’ -
And then in a passion of tears —‘ But, oh, to be sad like her:
Sad for a joy that has come and gone!’ ( Did some one speak, or stir? )
She looked at her faded hands, all burdened with costly rings;
She looked on her widowed home, all burdened with priceless things.
She thought of the dead years gone, of the empty years ahead -
( Yes, something stirred and something spake, and this was what it said:)
‘ The voice of the Might Have Been speaks here through the lonely dusk;
Life offered the fruits of love; you gathered only the husk.
There are jewels ablaze on your breast where never a child has slept.’
She covered her face with her ringed old hands, and wept and wept and wept.