(ii)
_He_ How unobtrusively the snow
Comes down beyond the crimson blind!
I see it not, but through my mind
Sieve the large flakes, both soft and slow,
Warding us in from humankind.
_She_ My nimble needle forth and back
Goes twanging through the tambour-frame
To stitch a bird without a name.
If an indifferent heart should crack
’Twould sound, I fancy, much the same.
_He_ A cruel night for beast or man
To be abroad. But we might doubt
By this warm hearth the snow shut out,
Save for a denser silence than
Is wont to compass us about.
_She_ The needle and the web, how fine!
The silks no thicker than a hair!
Each choice of tint calls forth my care,
And slowly goes the great design.
No matter. I have time to spare.
_He_ ’Twill soon be time to go to bed--
Sweet bed, but cold! Drowsed though I be
I’ll sit it out until I see
The wooden bird put forth his head,
And beck, and cry Cuckoo! to me.
_She_ With every length of gliding floss
Wrought in to make my sampler gay
So much life’s thread I stitch away.
But this bright wing will flaunt the gloss
Of life when I am dull as clay.
_He_ Cuckoo! Cuckoo! My dear, you heard
The clock? Another evening gone!
_She_ Asleep?
_He_ Not quite.
_She_ You’ve scarcely stirred.
_He_ In grave consideration
My thoughts upon that silly bird
Were fixed.
_She_ And mine on this.
_He_ Absurd!
We even think in unison.