conversation poem

For this assignment, we were asked to read a poem and then respond to it some way with a poem of our own. I read two poems titled "Song" by Christina Rosetti from my British Literature textbook from last year, and then tried to basically write a mirror poem of my own. I'm not certain whether I like how precisely copied they are. I'm not certain whether the poems I wrote are mine, but regardless of my concerns, here is what I wrote and what Ms. Rosetti wrote.

"Song"

She sat and sang alway
  By the green margin of the stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
  Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept alway
  Beneath the moon’s most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
  Weep leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory;
  She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
  Her songs died on the air.
-Christina Rosetti, 1848

“Type”

She sat and typed alway
  By the blue pixels of the screen,
Watching characters dodge and sway
  Beneath binary beam.

I sat and wrote alway
  Beneath solar lamp glaring gleam,
Watching the pages of the day
  Sweep paper sheaves to ream.

I wrote for ennui;
  She typed for grades beyond compare:
My thoughts were digitized debris;
  Her rank had not a pray’r.
-Laura Kean, 2009

“Song”

When I am dead, my dearest,
  Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
  Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
  With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
  And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
  I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
  Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
  That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.
-Christina Rosetti, 1848

“Type”

When you are dead, my dearest,
  Who says I’ll write to you;
Plan to wear my furious face,
  But you won’t have a clue:
With velvet lid above you
  Most silent you’ve sat yet;
Your voice I’ll not remember,
  Your voice I can’t forget.

I will note your many flaws,
  I’ll note the wrinkled tie;
I will note the darkened flowers
  Stink still under blue sky:
And fuming through the churchyard
  Expectations ne’er met,
Maybe I will remember,
   Maybe I can forget.
-Laura Kean, 2009