Habitation

High up in the sky there, now, you know,     In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,     Tenantless, and no creature there to go     Near it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheep     Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hears     Under that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,     The windows are uncurtained; on the stairs     Silence is but by tip-toe silence met.     All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put by     From use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.     Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May -     Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,     With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day     To the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep,     This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,     Breathing upon that still, insensible place,     Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,     And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,     That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,     One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,     Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,     Signs that even the curious man would miss,     Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,     Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride     Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide     Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ...     The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb -     But we are there - we are waiting ourselves who come.