Old men shake hands; their clawing grasp
Seems like a door without a clasp—
That gapes on slow black emptiness....
Now,—vanished is her cracked black dress,
The house grows tall from vacancy,
And in the kitchen I take tea
While the furry sun creeps out—that raw
Life,—sheathes its murderous claw
And lets its tongue slink out to lap
The silence—(a slow-leaking tap)....
II
THE COUNTY CALLS
THEY came upon us like a train—
A rush, a scream, then gone again!
With bodies like a continent
Encased in silken seas, they went
And came and called and took their tea
And patronised the Deity
Who copies their munificence
With creditable heart and sense.
Each face a plaster monument
For some belovèd aliment,
Whose everlasting sleep they deign
To cradle in the Great Inane;
Each tongue, a noisy clockwork bell
To toll the passing hour that fell;
Each hat, an architect’s device
For building churches, cheap and nice.
I saw the County Families
Advance and sit and take their teas;
I saw the County gaze askance
At my thin insignificance: