 | City Poems |  |
“Again to work so late! The second time
We have been treated so within the month,
And now the nights are fine. I hate that wretch,
Stealing up-stairs in india-rubber shoes,
Creeping from room to room, till, ere you know,
He is beside you; in each corner poking
With his white weasel face. He cooks his meals
Within his empty house; his sole companion,
A wretched cat that on his bounty starves—
A shadow, like himself.”
We have been treated so within the month,
And now the nights are fine. I hate that wretch,
Stealing up-stairs in india-rubber shoes,
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He is beside you; in each corner poking
With his white weasel face. He cooks his meals
Within his empty house; his sole companion,
A wretched cat that on his bounty starves—
A shadow, like himself.”
“His brother, too,
The upper and the nether millstone they,
And we are ground between. Last pay, because
I was one morning some ten minutes late
(Aunt Martha had been more than usual ill)—
He mulct me of an hour—a glass of port,
To redden in his nose! As there he sat,
Steaming from dinner, and struck off the pence,
If I had only pricked him with my needle,
Old Red-gills had bled wine.”
The upper and the nether millstone they,
And we are ground between. Last pay, because
I was one morning some ten minutes late
(Aunt Martha had been more than usual ill)—
He mulct me of an hour—a glass of port,
To redden in his nose! As there he sat,
Steaming from dinner, and struck off the pence,
If I had only pricked him with my needle,
Old Red-gills had bled wine.”
“Both the same stuff.
We are the bees that labour in the hive;
They eat the honey. At this very hour,
Mary will ope the ball. Would I were there!
To-night she wears the scarf that Morris gave.
How fond she seems of him!”
We are the bees that labour in the hive;
They eat the honey. At this very hour,
Mary will ope the ball. Would I were there!
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How fond she seems of him!”
“At dinner-time,
She bade me come and see her in her dress.
Joy stood like candles in her mother's eyes.
She rose up in her robe of snowy lace,
Her coal-black hair, which all the men admire,
Rolled up with pearls, and looked, by all the world,
Like a white waterfall. Each thing she wore,
From her rich head-dress to her satin foot,
Was given to her by him. She said she meant
To dress her head with living flowers;—what fun,
To use the roses, by one lover brought,
To turn the other's brain!”
She bade me come and see her in her dress.
Joy stood like candles in her mother's eyes.
She rose up in her robe of snowy lace,
Her coal-black hair, which all the men admire,
Rolled up with pearls, and looked, by all the world,
Like a white waterfall. Each thing she wore,
From her rich head-dress to her satin foot,
Was given to her by him. She said she meant
To dress her head with living flowers;—what fun,
To use the roses, by one lover brought,
To turn the other's brain!”
“What is he like?”
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