Or squeezes from the curd the pale whey,
And drone of bees holies the Met-
ropolitan and District Railway.
Here Amaryllis tends the hearth
Till, home returning from the City,
Her Damon comes to weed the garth
(Which makes his hands most awful gritty).
Here in the golden sunset's haze
Is love, I ween, no whit less hearty
Than when it walked in soot-grimed ways,