So 'tis your will to have a cell,
My Betsey, of your own and dwell
Here where the sun for ever shines
That glances off the holly spines--
A clearing where the trunks are few,
Here shall be built a house for you,
The little walls of beechen stakes
Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes,
Tiled with white oak-chips that lie round
The fallen giants on the ground;
Under your little feet shall be
A ground-work of wild strawberry
With gadding stem, a pleasant wort
Alike for carpet and dessert.
Here, Betsey, in the lucid shade
Come, let us twine a green stockade
With slender saplings all about,
And a small window to look out,
So that you may be "Not at Home"
If any mortal callers come.
Then shall arrive to make you mirth
The four wise peoples of the earth:
The thrifty ants who run around
To fill their store-rooms underground;
The rabbit-folk, a feeble race,
From out their rocky sleeping-place;
The grasshoppers who have no king,
Yet come in companies to sing;
The lizard slim who shyly stands
Swaying upon his slender hands--
I'll give them all your new address.
For me, my little anchoress,
I'll never stir the bracken by
Your house; the brown wood butterfly,
Passing you like the sunshine's fleck
That gilds the nape of your warm neck,
Shall still report me how you do
And bring me all the news of you,
And tell me (where I sit alone)
How gay you are, and how you're grown
A fox-glove's span in the soft weather.
* * * *
No? Then we'll wander home together.
MRS. HELEN PARRY EDEN.
July 24, 1912.