All these years I wished he’d die—
Today they carried him slowly by.
Now, I said, he is hers no more;
Now he’s mine as he was before.
But when they laid him in the ground
I saw her mother-breast full and round;
I saw her hands that had worked for him—
Mine are white and long and slim.
She has her sorrow now to keep—
I have only my restless sleep.
All these years I wished he’d die—
Even in death she has more than I.