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.

[Pg 8]

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

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