Classic Poem

When her husband first departed
Widow Blacke was very sad;
You'd have thought her broken-hearted,
Such a mournful way she had.
Oh, the sorrow of her sighing!
Oh, how wearily she smiled!
People thought: " With grief she's dying,
She will ne'er grow reconciled. "

Now, if you will closely scan her,
You, perhaps, may note a change;
Something in her dress or manner
Out of sorrow's widest range.
Widow Blacke's but three and twenty —
Why, she's nothing but a child;
One year's mourning is a plenty.
Is she growing reconciled?

Seems to me the ashy whiteness
On her cheek is giving way
To a hue of healthy brightness,
Waxing deeper day by day.
Gossips say, and it's a pity,
That her cheeks with paint are piled;
Widow Blacke is very pretty —
Is she growing reconciled?

Near the grave where Blacke reposes
I was strolling yesternight
And I spied a bunch of roses
Near the headstone — withered quite.
Roses are so very fleeting!
So are griefs, if deep or mild,
And I couldn't help repeating,
" Is she growing reconciled? "

Then her mourning, I'm not sure
Whether pride or grief it shows;
Mourning's so becoming to her,
Such a foil for pink and rose!
Who's that promenading yonder?
Widow Blacke and Major Wilde?
No! It is, though, for a wonder:
She is growing reconciled.