The Lost One by Karle Wilson Baker

There are so many kinds of me
Indeed, I cannot say
Just which of many I shall be
Tomorrow, or today.

Whence are diey — princess, witch ot nun?
I know not; this I know:
The gravest, gentlest, simplest one
Was buried long ago.

Wrapped in the faded pride it wore,
It slumbers, as is fit,
And nothing tells die name it bore
Or marks the place of it.

But all the other kinds of me,
They know, and turn aside,
And check their laughter soberly
Above die one that died.