I see them coming home each day from market
In their soft silken dresses and quaint bonnets;
Their profiles are clear-cut and delicate,
They walk with little toddling steps like doves.
—And I would love to follow them within
Their house and see it all; the tiny parlor
Whose walls I know are panelled in brocade
Of softest gold and blue, while all around
The fireplace are set tiles whose azure patterns
Tell a forgotten legend. On the mantel
Beside the tall gilt clock are peacock feathers
Standing up straight in a vase of yellow porcelain.
Then I would cross the narrow hallway; peer
Into the dining-room that looks upon
A high-walled garden—but the windows of it
Are almost dark with tangled honeysuckle;
And in the glass-doored cupboard there'd be plates
And cups of china painted by themselves
A trifle smudged—the work of amateurs.
I often wonder what they have for supper—
Such cream-white custards might be baked in thimbles,
And cookies with sliced citron and burnt almonds,
Plump cherries floating in a golden syrup,
And tea of course—perhaps, on great occasions
They dare to sip a cordial sharply fragrant
As the heliotrope that blossoms in their garden.
—Then, I would climb the winding stairway; see
Their sleeping-chamber with the prim white beds
That smell of lavender, and every piece
Of furniture is carved of ancient rosewood.
Perhaps, on the grey-patterned walls are hanging
The family silhouettes each trimly framed
In black and gilt; perhaps, a mirror like
In their soft silken dresses and quaint bonnets;
Their profiles are clear-cut and delicate,
They walk with little toddling steps like doves.
—And I would love to follow them within
Their house and see it all; the tiny parlor
Whose walls I know are panelled in brocade
Of softest gold and blue, while all around
The fireplace are set tiles whose azure patterns
Tell a forgotten legend. On the mantel
Beside the tall gilt clock are peacock feathers
Standing up straight in a vase of yellow porcelain.
Then I would cross the narrow hallway; peer
Into the dining-room that looks upon
A high-walled garden—but the windows of it
Are almost dark with tangled honeysuckle;
And in the glass-doored cupboard there'd be plates
And cups of china painted by themselves
A trifle smudged—the work of amateurs.
I often wonder what they have for supper—
Such cream-white custards might be baked in thimbles,
And cookies with sliced citron and burnt almonds,
Plump cherries floating in a golden syrup,
And tea of course—perhaps, on great occasions
They dare to sip a cordial sharply fragrant
As the heliotrope that blossoms in their garden.
—Then, I would climb the winding stairway; see
Their sleeping-chamber with the prim white beds
That smell of lavender, and every piece
Of furniture is carved of ancient rosewood.
Perhaps, on the grey-patterned walls are hanging
The family silhouettes each trimly framed
In black and gilt; perhaps, a mirror like
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