XLVIII
There’s been a death in the opposite houseAs lately as to-day.I know it by the numb lookSuch houses have alway.
The neighbors rustle in and out,The doctor drives away.A window opens like a pod,Abrupt, mechanically;
Somebody flings a mattress out,—The children hurry by;They wonder if It died on that,—I used to when a boy.
The minister goes stiffly inAs if the house were his,And he owned all the mourners now,And little boys besides;
And then the milliner, and the manOf the appalling trade,To take the measure of the house.There’ll be that dark parade
Of tassels and of coaches soon;It’s easy as a sign,—The intuition of the newsIn just a country town.