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r head as if to say, 'You silly souls, to act this way!' And never a sound from night I'd hear, Unless some far-off cock crowed clear; Or her old shuffling thumb should turn Another page; and rapt and stern, Through her great glasses bent on me She'd glance into reality; And shake her round old silvery head, With--'You!--I thought you was in bed!'-- Only to tilt her book again, And rooted in Romance remain. OLD BEN Sad is old Ben Thistlewaite, Now his day is done, And all his children Far away are gone. He sits beneath his jasmined porch, His stick between his knees, His eyes fixed vacant On his moss-grown trees. Grass springs in the green path, His flowers are lean and dry, His thatch hangs in wisps against The evening sky. He has no heart to care now, Though the winds will blow Whistling in his casement, And the rain drip thro'. He thinks of his old Bettie, How she'd shake her head and say, 'You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue Could scold--some day,' But as in pale high autumn skies The swallows float and play, His restless thoughts pass to and fro, But nowhere stay. Soft, on the morrow, they are gone; His garden then will be Denser and shadier and greener, Greener the moss-grown tree. MISS LOO When thin-strewn memory I look through, I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, Her nose, her hair--her muffled words, And how she'd open her green eyes, As if in some immense surprise, Whenever as we sat at tea She made some small remark to me. It's always drowsy summer when From out the past she comes again; The westering sunshine in a pool Floats in her parlour still and cool; While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, As into piercing song it breaks; Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar. And I am sitting, dull and shy, And she with gaze of vacancy, And large hands folded on the tray, Musing the afternoon away; Her satin bosom heaving slow With sighs that softly ebb and flow, And her plain face in such dismay, It seems unkind to look her way: Until all cheerful back will come Her cheerful gleaming spirit home: And one would think that poor Miss Loo Asked nothing else, if she had you. THE TAILOR Few footsteps stray when dusk droops o'er The tailor's old stone-lintelled door: There sits he stitching half asleep, Beside his smoky tallow dip.
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