When thin-strewn memory I look through, <br />I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, <br />Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, <br />Her nose, her hair -- her muffled words, <br />And how she'd open her green eyes, <br />As if in some immense surprise, <br />Whenever as we sat at tea, <br />She made some small remark to me. <br /> <br />It's always drowsy summer when <br />From out the past she comes again; <br />The westering sunshine in a pool <br />Floats in her parlour still and cool; <br />While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, <br />As into piercing song it breaks <br />Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar <br />Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar; <br />And I am sitting , dull and shy <br />And she with gaze of vacancy, <br />And large hands folded on the tray, <br />Musing the afternoon away; <br />Her satin bosom heaving slow <br />With sighs that softly ebb and flow, <br />And her plain face in such dismay, <br />It seems unkind to look her way: <br />Until all cheerful back will come <br />Her cheerful gleaming spirit home: <br />And one would think that poor Miss Loo <br />Asked nothing else, if she had you.<br /><br />Walter de la Mare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/miss-loo/
