 | Collected poems |  |
522
AFTER A HOLIDAY
Three little ducks by a door,
Snuggling aside in the sun;
The sweep of a threshing-floor,
A flail with its One-two, One;
Snuggling aside in the sun;
The sweep of a threshing-floor,
A flail with its One-two, One;
A shaggy-haired, loose-limbed mare,
Grave as a master at class;
A foal with its heels in the air,
Rolling, for joy, in the grass;
Grave as a master at class;
A foal with its heels in the air,
Rolling, for joy, in the grass;
A sunny-eyed, golden-haired lad,
Laughing, astride on a wall;
A collie-dog, lazily glad . . .
Why do I think of it all?
Laughing, astride on a wall;
A collie-dog, lazily glad . . .
Why do I think of it all?
Why? From my window I see,
Once more through the dust-dry pane,
The sky like a great Dead Sea,
And the lash of the London rain;
Once more through the dust-dry pane,
The sky like a great Dead Sea,
And the lash of the London rain;
And I read—here in London town,
Of a murder done at my gate,
And a goodly ship gone down,
And of homes made desolate;
Of a murder done at my gate,
And a goodly ship gone down,
And of homes made desolate;
523
And I know, with the old sick heart,
That but for a moment's space,
We may shut our sense, and part
From the pain of this tarrying place.
That but for a moment's space,
We may shut our sense, and part
From the pain of this tarrying place.
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