A flower is looking through the ground, Blinking at the April weather; Now a child has seen the flower: Now they go and play together.

Now it seems the flower will speak, And will call the child its brother-- But, oh strange forgetfulness!-- They don't recognize each other.

EVERY THING

Since man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate), He has not understood the little cries And foreign conversations of the small Delightful creatures that have followed him Not far behind; Has failed to hear the sympathetic call Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind Reposeful Teraphim Of his domestic happiness; the Stool He sat on, or the Door he entered through: He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!

What is he coming to?

But you should listen to the talk of these.

Honest they are, and patient they have kept, Served him without his 'Thank you' or his 'Please'.

I often heard The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word, Murmuring, before I slept.

The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud, Then bowed, And in a smoky argument Into the darkness went.

The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:-- 'Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know Why; and he always says I boil too slow.

He never calls me "Sukie, dear," and oh, I wonder why I squander my desire Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire.'

Now the old Copper Basin suddenly Rattled and tumbled from the shelf, b.u.mping and crying: 'I can fall by myself; Without a woman's hand To patronize and coax and flatter me, I understand The lean and poise of gravitable land.'

It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout, Twisted itself convulsively about, Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare, It stares and grins at me.

The old impetuous Gas above my head Begins irascibly to flare and fret, Wheezing into its epileptic jet, Reminding me I ought to go to bed.

The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.

Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again.

The Putty cracks against the window-pane.

A piece of Paper in the basket shoves Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.

My independent Pencil, while I write, Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock Stirs all its body and begins to rock, Warning the waiting presence of the Night, Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain Ticking of ordinary work again.

You do well to remind me, and I praise Your strangely individual foreign ways.

You call me from myself to recognize Companionship in your unselfish eyes.

I want your dear acquaintances, although I pa.s.s you arrogantly over, throw Your lovely sounds, and squander them along My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.

Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.

You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat, Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak, Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.

It well becomes our mutual happiness To go toward the same end more or less.

There is not much dissimilarity, Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine, Between the purposes of you and me, And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.

SOLITUDE

When you have tidied all things for the night, And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep, You'll pause a moment in the late firelight, Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood In sympathetic silence all the day With that old kindness of domestic wood; Nevertheless the haunted room will say: 'Some one must be away.'

The little dog rolls over half awake, Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you, Wags his tail very slightly for your sake, That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door.

Silence is scattered like a broken gla.s.s.

The minutes p.r.i.c.k their ears and run about, Then one by one subside again and pa.s.s Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear.

Solitude walks one heavy step more near.

WEEK-END

I

The train! The twelve o'clock for paradise.

Hurry, or it will try to creep away.

Out in the country every one is wise: We can be only wise on Sat.u.r.day.

There you are waiting, little friendly house: Those are your chimney-stacks with you between, Surrounded by old trees and strolling cows, Staring through all your windows at the green.

Your homely floor is creaking for our tread; The smiling tea-pot with contented spout Thinks of the boiling water, and the bread Longs for the b.u.t.ter. All their hands are out To greet us, and the gentle blankets seem Purring and crooning: 'Lie in us, and dream.'

II

The key will stammer, and the door reply, The hall wake, yawn, and smile; the torpid stair Will grumble at our feet, the table cry: 'Fetch my belongings for me; I am bare.'

A clatter! Something in the attic falls.

A ghost has lifted up his robes and fled.

The loitering shadows move along the walls; Then silence very slowly lifts his head.

The starling with impatient screech has flown The chimney, and is watching from the tree.

They thought us gone for ever: mouse alone Stops in the middle of the floor to see.

Now all you idle things, resume your toil.

Hearth, put your flames on. Sulky kettle, boil.

III

Contented evening; comfortable joys; The snoozing fire, and all the fields are still: Tranquil delight, no purpose, and no noise-- Unless the slow wind flowing round the hill.

'Murry' (the kettle) dozes; little mouse Is rambling prudently about the floor.

There's lovely conversation in this house: Words become princes that were slaves before.

What a sweet atmosphere for you and me The people that have been here left behind....

Oh, but I fear it may turn out to be Built of a dream, erected in the mind: So if we speak too loud, we may awaken To find it vanished, and ourselves mistaken.

IV

Lift up the curtain carefully. All the trees Stand in the dark like drowsy sentinels.

The oak is talkative to-night; he tells The little bushes crowding at his knees That formidable, hard, voluminous History of growth from acorn into age.