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Thank Goodness, the moving is over,
They’ve swept up the straw in the passage
And life will begin….
This tiny, white, tiled cottage by the bridge!...
When we’ve had tea I will punt you
To Paradise for the sugar and onions….
We will drift home in the twilight,
The trout will be rising….
This poem is in the public domain.
Let me wait, my dear,
One more day,
Let me linger near,
Let me stay.
Do not bar the gate of draw the blind
Or lock the door that yields,
Dear, be kind!
I
I should like to imagine
A moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!
The old houses of Flanders,
They watch by the high cathedrals;
They overtop the high town-halls;
They have eyes, mournful, tolerant and sardonic, for the ways of men
In the high, white, tiled gables.
The rain and the night have settled down on Flanders;
It is all wet darkness; you can see nothing.