The Whitewashed Wall

Why does she turn in that shy soft way     Whenever she stirs the fire,     And kiss to the chimney-corner wall,     As if entranced to admire     Its whitewashed bareness more than the sight     Of a rose in richest green?     I have known her long, but this raptured rite     I never before have seen.     - Well, once when her son cast his shadow there,     A friend took a pencil and drew him     Upon that flame-lit wall. And the lines     Had a lifelike semblance to him.     And there long stayed his familiar look;     But one day, ere she knew,     The whitener came to cleanse the nook,     And covered the face from view.     "Yes," he said: "My brush goes on with a rush,     And the draught is buried under;     When you have to whiten old cots and brighten,     What else can you do, I wonder?"     But she knows he's there. And when she yearns     For him, deep in the labouring night,     She sees him as close at hand, and turns     To him under his sheet of white.