MISS LOO

When thin-strewn memory I look through,

I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,

Her tabby cat, her cage of birds,

Her nose, her hair, her muffled words,

And how she would open her green eyes,

As if in some immense surprise,

Whenever as we sat at tea

She made some small remark to me.

‘ Tis always drowsy summer when

From out the past she comes again;

The westering sunshine in a pool

Floats in her parlour still and cool;

While the slim bird its lean wires shakes,

As into piercing song it breaks;

Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar

Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar.

And I am sitting, dull and shy,

And she with gaze of vacancy,

And large hands folded on the tray,

Musing the afternoon away;

Her satin bosom heaving slow

With sighs that softly ebb and flow.

And her plain face in such dismay,

It seems unkind to look her way:

Until all cheerful back will come

Her gentle gleaming spirit home:

And one would think that poor Miss Loo

Asked nothing else, if she had you.