Read and find him . I will see that you go not in the wet . '' IN THE GARRET Four little chests all in a row , Dim with dust , and worn by time , All fashioned and filled , long ago , By children now in their prime . Four little keys hung side by side , With faded ribbons , brave and gay When fastened there , with childish pride , Long ago , on a rainy day . Four little names , one on each lid , Carved out by a boyish hand , And underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happy band Once playing here , and pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain , That came and went on the roof aloft , In the falling summer rain . `` Meg '' on the first lid , smooth and fair . I look in with loving eyes , For folded here , with well-known care , A goodly gathering lies , The record of a peaceful life -- Gifts to gentle child and girl , A bridal gown , lines to a wife , A tiny shoe , a baby curl . No toys in this first chest remain , For all are carried away , In their old age , to join again In another small Meg 's play . Ah , happy mother ! Well I know You hear , like a sweet refrain , Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain . `` Jo '' on the next lid , scratched and worn , And within a motley store Of headless dolls , of schoolbooks torn , Birds and beasts that speak no more , Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet , Dreams of a future never found , Memories of a past still sweet , Half-writ poems , stories wild , April letters , warm and cold , Diaries of a wilful child , Hints of a woman early old , A woman in a lonely home , Hearing , like a sad refrain -- `` Be worthy , love , and love will come , '' In the falling summer rain . My Beth ! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name , As if by loving eyes that wept , By careful hands that often came . Death canonized for us one saint , Ever less human than divine , And still we lay , with tender plaint , Relics in this household shrine -- The silver bell , so seldom rung , The little cap which last she wore , The fair , dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door . The songs she sang , without lament , In her prison-house of pain , Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain . Upon the last lid 's polished field -- Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield , `` Amy '' in letters gold and blue . Within lie snoods that bound her hair , Slippers that have danced their last , Faded flowers laid by with care , Fans whose airy toils are past , Gay valentines , all ardent flames , Trifles that have borne their part In girlish hopes and fears and shames , The record of a maiden heart Now learning fairer , truer spells , Hearing , like a blithe refrain , The silver sound of bridal bells In the falling summer rain . Four little chests all in a row , Dim with dust , and worn by time , Four women , taught by weal and woe To love and labor in their prime . Four sisters , parted for an hour , None lost , one only gone before , Made by love 's immortal power , Nearest and dearest evermore . Oh , when these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father 's sight , May they be rich in golden hours , Deeds that show fairer for the light , Lives whose brave music long shall ring , Like a spirit-stirring strain , Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain .
`` It 's very bad poetry , but I felt it when I wrote it , one XXXXX when I was very lonely , and had a good cry on a rag bag .
Catherine GARRET Meg Relics day first hours plaint prison-house weal