Tommy watched the process with some curiosity. Then he stole to the window, for all the world was calling him.
But he paused with one foot on the first step, as the poet looked up from his manuscript.
"How do you like this?" he asked eagerly:
Oh the daffodils sing of my lady's gown,
The hyacinths dream of her eyes,
And the wandering breezes across the down,
The harmonies dropt from the skies,
Are full of the song of the love that swept
My citadel by surprise.
Oh the woods they are bright with my lady's voice,
The paths they are sweet with her tread,
And the kiss of her gown makes the lawn rejoice,
The violet lift her head.
Yet, lady, I know not if I must smile
Or weep for the days long sped.
The poet blinked rapturously through his glasses at Tommy, listening respectfully, by the window.
"They're jolly good—but I say, who is she?"
The poet seemed a little puzzled.
"I am afraid I do not comprehend you," he said.
"The lady," observed Tommy. "I didn't know you were in love, you know, or anything of that sort."