All day long I have been working,
Now I am tired.
I call: "Where
are you?"
But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.
The house
is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and
thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am
lonely:
Where are you?
I go about searching.
Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a
basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you
smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.
You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have
overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and
rounded.
You tell me these things.
But I look at you, heart of
silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver,
Burning beneath the blue
steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your
feet,
While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums of the Canterbury
bells.