But my true love's a rover!

  Mig, her man's as good as cheese
    And honest as a briar,
  Sue tells her love what he's thinking of,—
    But my dear lad's a liar!

  Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
    Are thick with Mig and Joan!
  They bite their threads and shake their heads
    And gnaw my name like a bone;

  And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,
    As never snaps me up,"
  And Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,
    Could live content in a cup;"

  Sue's man's mind is like good jell—
    All one colour, and clear—
  And Mig's no call to think at all
    What's to come next year,

  While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
    That's troubled with that and this;—
  But they all would give the life they live
    For a look from the man I kiss!

  Cold he slants his eyes about,
    And few enough's his choice,—
  Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
    Or a beggar with knots in her voice,—

  And Agatha will turn awake
    While her good man sleeps sound,
  And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
    Will hear the clock strike round,

  For Prue she has a patient man,
    As asks not when or why,
  And Mig and Sue have naught to do
    But peep who's passing by,

  Joan is paired with a putterer
    That bastes and tastes and salts,
  And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,—
    But my true love is false!

The Prisoner

  All right,
  Go ahead!
  What's in a name?
  I guess I'll be locked into
  As much as I'm locked out of!

The Unexplorer

  There was a road ran past our house
  Too lovely to explore.
  I asked my mother once—she said
  That if you followed where it led
  It brought you to the milk-man's door.
  (That's why I have not traveled more.)

Grown-up

  Was it for this I uttered prayers,
  And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
  That now, domestic as a plate,
  I should retire at half-past eight?

The Penitent

  I had a little Sorrow,
    Born of a little Sin,
  I found a room all damp with gloom
    And shut us all within;
  And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
    "And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
  And I upon the floor will lie
    And think how bad I've been!"

  Alas for pious planning—
    It mattered not a whit!
  As far as gloom went in that room,
    The lamp might have been lit!
  My little Sorrow would not weep,
    My little Sin would go to sleep—
  To save my soul I could not keep
    My graceless mind on it!

  So up I got in anger,
    And took a book I had,
  And put a ribbon on my hair
    To please a passing lad,
  And, "One thing there's no getting by—
  I've been a wicked girl," said I;
  "But if I can't be sorry, why,
    I might as well be glad!"

Daphne

  Why do you follow me?—
  Any moment I can be
  Nothing but a laurel-tree.

  Any moment of the chase
  I can leave you in my place