The strike's done.
The men won.
The ships sail the sea
To bring back
'I want a parlourmaid.'
'Well, let me see
If you were God, what kind of maid she'd be.'
'She would be tall,
Cherry plum blossom in an old tin jug —
Oh, it is lovely, beautiful and fair,
With sun on it and little shadows mixed
He's out of work!
I tell myself a change should mean a chance,
And he must look for changes to advance,
They say she was a creature of the moor,
A lover of the angels, silence bound.
She sought no friendships. She was too remote,
Miss Murphy has blue eyes and blue-black hair,
Her machine's opposite mine
So I can stare
At her pale face and shining blue-black hair.
There's a big park just close to where we live —
Trees in a row
And shaggy grass whereon the dead leaves blow.
Through the Museum
I stroll, and see
Goblets fashioned in Arcady,
Spears from the Islands, and robes from Tyre—
And is love very strong where honour rules?
Would the world ever speak of Lancelot's love
Or Tristram's love had they put honour first?