“Dear gell, thy Joe is gone to glory,
    Took sudden upo’ Sunday night.”
So of the drear pathetic story
    Wrote one who could not write.

“He will not keeap, his corp’s that bad,
    We bury ’im at threea to-morrow”
Words fit to send a lover mad,
    Sad words not meant for sorrow.

“We shall not send to meeát thee, gell,
    But cloathes they needn’t be no bother,
Fur Emma’s ‘black’ ’ull saive thee well
    That job, thy luvvin’ mother.”

So in such wise a mother told
    Of Joe the village lover’s death,
And of a world made blank and cold
    For her Elizabeth.

Though happy they whose souls have words
    Whose thoughts flame out in golden speech,
Our human hearts have tender chords,
    Such silence best can reach.

(Poems, Ballads, and Bucolics, p. 99)