She kept her songs, they kept so little space, br The covers pleased her: br One bleached from lying in a sunny place, br One marked in circles by a vase of water, br One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her, br And coloured, by her daughter - br So they had waited, till, in widowhood br She found them, looking for something else, and stood br br Relearning how each frank submissive chord br Had ushered in br Word after sprawling hyphenated word, br And the unfailing sense of being young br Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein br That hidden freshness sung, br That certainty of time laid up in store br As when she played them first. But, even more, br br The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love, br Broke out, to show br Its bright incipience sailing above, br Still promising to solve, and satisfy, br And set unchangeably in order. So br To pile them back, to cry, br Was hard, without lamely admitting how br It had not done so then, and could not now.