With polish bright the coffee pots
Were newly cleaned up, one and all,
And hooks and pegs were screwed in lots,
To hold the hats in the entrance hall.
The drugget was still clean and strange,
Unhampered was the Bramah latch
And unconsumed the congreve match
Beside the new-set kitchen range.
She only said, “The Season’s dreary,
I thought there would be some.”