Classic Poem

So , then, my boy, you want to know
?Just what is trouble? Some great day, no doubt,
When all this world is full of rain or snow,
Or lonesomer because the birds sing so;
Or some strange night, when this same moon drops low
?On many graves—or one—you will find out.
You do not want to wait, I fear—
?You want to see it now, or pretty soon?
The woman dressed in black so who was here
Said she saw trouble always? It is queer
That she sees things you cannot see, my dear.
?——Did I say there was trouble in the moon?
No, but I think it may be there,
?For people see it when they lie awake.
And in the sun as well, and in the air,
And in the tangles of some yellow hair,
And in the wind that blows it everywhere—
?Except to Heaven (if I do not mistake).
Once when her boy was dead, ah, me!
?It would not let her sleep?——Is it a ghost?
Why, if it were a ghost, then it would be
Something, or nothing, that we cannot see!
And yet it is a ghost, sometimes, and we
?Just think we see it, in the dark, at most.
Do women, then, wear glasses so
?They can see trouble? Hardly, I'm afraid;
Perhaps they see it plainer with them, though.
Oh, as to men! Indeed, I do not know.
They miss the train because their watch is slow,
?And drink such coffee as was never made;
They have to wait till some one brings
?Their hat and gloves and overcoat and all,
After that terrible last church-bell rings,
While she is only doing fifty things
Between the tying of her bonnet-strings,
?The baby's cries, and putting on her shawl.
So these poor men see trouble too,
?In their own way, a little, I suppose.
Still, what is trouble? Just see here, if you
Tore off that first white rose before I knew
How sweet it was, and cut this lace all through,
?Too well I know how well your mother knows.