![]() | Sonnets at the English Lakes | ![]() |
55
LV. THE WAGTAIL.
With tiniest voice about the garden walk,With shuffling pace, and balancing of gait,
I watch thee chatter trifles to thy mate—
Thy face in domino of black and chalk;
Then, quite transformed in mood, I see thee stalk
With solemn look pretentious in debate,
A white-haired doctor, college-cap on pate,
Thy face and manner chiming with thy talk.
With each new Spring, I need about my porch
Thy quite unconscious oft-recurrent aid;
Thy change of manner, quick duplicity,
Fancied, not real, must still a warning be,
How, in her wish to please, a grave old Church
May don new dress, and end in masquerade.
![]() | Sonnets at the English Lakes | ![]() |