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Poem	When you come home I'll not be round To welcome you. They'll take you to a grassy mound So neat and new; Where I'll be sleeping--O so sound! The ages through. I'll not be round to broom the hearth, To feed the chicks; And in the wee room of your birth Your bed to fix; Rose room that knew your baby mirth Your tiny tricks. I'll not be round . . . The garden still With bees will hum; To cheerful you the throstle's bill Will not be dumb; The rambler rose will overspill When you will come. Bird, bee and bloom, they'll greet you all With scented sound; Yet though the joy of your footfall Will thrill the ground Your mother with her old grey shawl-- Will not be round.
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