I sit a stranger in my room and sigh for Josephine.
She says that table’s “awful” and it drives her to despair;
Perhaps it does, but method’s in what seems confusion there—
I know where every paper is, each book and magazine.
That jumbled pile was sacred in the eyes of Josephine.
This new one hides my things away in pigeon-hole and drawer,
And, faith, she does her job so well, they’re lost for evermore.
She’ll have to learn to let things be as they have ever been—
Just make the bed, and sweep the floor, the same as Josephine.
And yet no sthreel was Josephine, for quick was she to note