The Horse Trough

Clouds of children round the trough

Splash and clatter in the sun:

Their clouted shoes are mostly off,

And some are quarrelling, and one

Cools half her face, nose downward bubbling,

Wetting her clo'es and never troubling;

Bobble, bobble, bobble there

Till bubbles like young earthquakes heave

The orange island of her hair,

And tidal waves run up her sleeve;

Another's tanned as brown as bistre;

Another ducks his little sister,

And all are mixed in such a crowd

And tell their separate joys so loud

That who can be this silent one,

This dimpled, pensive, baby one?

— She sits the sunny steps so still

For hours, trying hard to kill

One fly at least of those that buzz

So cannily...

And then she does.