A SKETCH
I HEAR him humming as he drives his car,
In mellow baritone, an ancient psalm—
Drifting down to his subtle modern brain
From his old covenanting ancestors,
Who strode bare-kneed through purple heather bloom,
Praising their God on wind-swept Highland hills.
I am his wife. Beside him vividly,
I see now not the crowded city streets,
Through which he presses, strong, aloof and calm,
Factories and shipyards where his vast machines
Whirr steadfastly, obedient to his brain—
I see now just those small and golden hours
When he is mine.