The Shroud

A poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine,--O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!

(I, that would not wait to wear
My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
Made my answerings.

I, to-night, that till he came
Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as bright as flame
Held for them the gate.)

Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine,--O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!

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