(To Janey Golding)
When I am rich, mother,
You will sit in satins,
Yellow satins, looking out upon the street.
You will smile out on the neighbours,
Who will have no yellow satins;
And there'll be a great big hassock to rest your tired feet.
You'll have a gold-clasped family album,
And a grand piano in the corner;
But yellow satins, yellow satins, I have chiefly dreamed of them.
And the most wonderful silk-lined work-box,
With the clothes of my first baby,
For your dear pale fingers to hem.
And the neighbours will come to see you,
And pretend not to be looking
At the wonderful yellow satins, till I take you away to bed.
But in dreaming of the yellow satins,
I have forgotten, I have forgotten....
Isn't it seven years, little mother, since you've been dead?