LVIII
Retrospect
‘T was just this time last year I died.I know I heard the corn,When I was carried by the farms,—It had the tassels on.
I thought how yellow it would lookWhen Richard went to mill;And then I wanted to get out,But something held my will.
I thought just how red apples wedgedThe stubble’s joints between;And carts went stooping round the fieldsTo take the pumpkins in.
I wondered which would miss me least,And when Thanksgiving came,If father’d multiply the platesTo make an even sum.
And if my stocking hung too high,Would it blur the Christmas glee,That not a Santa Claus could reachThe altitude of me?
But this sort grieved myself, and soI thought how it would beWhen just this time, some perfect year,Themselves should come to me.