These things were yours, these little simple things;

You touched them, used them one time, loved them well.

Now you are gone, but still about them clings

The fragrance of your hands adorable.

These childish books; these learned works well-thumbed;

These time-stained prints; these comfortable chairs;

This music, and this album where you gummed

Your childhood's treasure; these Italian jars;

This little cup blue-patterned; this old bed;

These sheets that whitely wrapt you slumbering;

These garden-walks and autumn-tinted trees,

That knew your laughter, and past numbering

These blades of grass that bent beneath your tread:

Because they once were yours, I love all these.