Morning and Night

When through the curtain's flutter the sun slips in,

Streaks yellow on the floor and flecks the face of you,

I awake to think of dusting off the red-plush chairs

And of drying steaming dishes a long white hour through.

I shall sweep light leaves from the wide, strong-pillared

porch;

Brush out the feathered dirt with my stiff new broom.

I shall press vine-tendril patterns from wet linen, I shall

ruffle

The fresh, starched hangings for the sunny sitting-room.

All these rushing hurried moments of the morning through

I do not love you, there is too much to do!

But when the poplar's shadow by the lake grows tall,

And the fire gleams gold on the tea-cup by your plate,

Then the whole room listens with the wonder of it all,

With a still impatience for your whistle at the gate.