What dusky branches fret the yellow sky,
Betsey, beyond our urban balcony
How darkly looms the street;
And from below how many a note assails
Your unaccustomed ears where London wails
About your little feet.
Here, princess of a sombre citadel,
You stand, the muffin-man with twilight bell
Preludes your early tea
And where the milk-man on melodious ways
Slowly meanders, you incline to praise
His clear delivery;
How pitiful you scan the vagabond
Who cries his ferns as though each arid frond
Sprang from his arid heart,
And list the lamentable sweep complain
Urging in wrath against the slanting rain
The sable of his cart.
These for your little ears, so lately blest
With cluck of painted poultry on the nest
And rooks’ loquacious flight,
Who, when the pear-blossom was hardly blown,
Answered the cuckoo’s folly with your own
And chid the owls at night.
Dear, I could thank you for your brave content—
But, ah, beware, when spring is gone and spent,
Lest summer’s dusty stir
Lead gypsies Londonwards from scented loam
Of Mitcham and the furrows nearer home
With song of “Lavender!”
Then close your casement, shun the outer air,
Let no sublime virago mount the stair
And bring the rustic South,
Lest some quick memory of all before
And the great silver bush beside the door,
Deject your happy mouth.