SIMKIN
TO the sheer summit of the town,
Up from the marshes where the mill is,
The High Street clambers, looking down
On willows, weirs and water-lilies;
What goblin homes those gradients bear,
Doors that for all their new defacements
Date darkly, windows that outwear
The centuries shining on their casements!
When Simkin shows you up the street
To pay a bill or post a letter,
Your urgency infects his feet,
He speeds as well as you, or better;
Moulding his Lilliputian stride
To your swift footfall's emulation
He walks unwavering by your side
Until you reach your destination.
Simkin, the urchin with the shock
Of curls rush-hatted, plainly preaches
The Age of Reason in a smock
And Liberty in holland breeches,
Yet all obediently he'll ramp
Against the counter, pressing closer
To watch you lick a ha'penny stamp
Or see you settle with the grocer.
But once your steps retrace the town
And "Home's" the goal your folly mentions
A thousand projects of his own
Engage the sum of his attentions—
As when, precariously superb,
He mounts with two-year-old activity
The great stone horse-block by the kerb
Time-worn to glacial declivity.
Then debonair and undebarred
By the old hound, its casual sentry,
He dallies in "The Old George" yard
And greets the jackdaw in the entry;
Retracted to the street, he gains
A sombre door no sunshine mellows,
The smithy, where there glows and wanes
Fire, at the bidding of the bellows.
A-tip-toe at the infrequent shops
Toys or tin kettles he appraises,
Seeds in bright packets, lollipops,
Through the dim oriels' greenish glazes:
Then with two sturdy hands he shakes
The stripling sycamore that dapples
With shade the side-walk and awakes
Some ancient memory of apples.
Next he rejoins, beneath a sky
With willow-leaves and gnats a-quiver,
The dapper martins where they ply
A clayey traffic by the river;
Watches the minnows in the warm
Near shallows with a smile persuading—
He could not come to any harm
On such a heaven-sent day for wading!
Home's gained at last. At last they cease,
Coaxes, entreaties, threats, coercions;
An old gate's iron fleurs-de-lis
Shut upon Simkin's last diversions.
The garden crossed, the door stands wide,
And, pouting like a wronged immortal,
But passive as a Roman bride,
Simkin is lifted through the portal.