Dream Of The City Shopwoman

'Twere sweet to have a comrade here,     Who'd vow to love this garreteer,     By city people's snap and sneer     Tried oft and hard!     We'd rove a truant cock and hen     To some snug solitary glen,     And never be seen to haunt again     This teeming yard.     Within a cot of thatch and clay     We'd list the flitting pipers play,     Our lives a twine of good and gay     Enwreathed discreetly;     Our blithest deeds so neighbouring wise     That doves should coo in soft surprise,     "These must belong to Paradise     Who live so sweetly."     Our clock should be the closing flowers,     Our sprinkle-bath the passing showers,     Our church the alleyed willow bowers,     The truth our theme;     And infant shapes might soon abound:     Their shining heads would dot us round     Like mushroom balls on grassy ground . . .      But all is dream!     O God, that creatures framed to feel     A yearning nature's strong appeal     Should writhe on this eternal wheel     In rayless grime;     And vainly note, with wan regret,     Each star of early promise set;     Till Death relieves, and they forget     Their one Life's time!     WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1866.