REUBEN
Opposite, looking landward, with the lap
Of garden spread between, a small house stood,
Square, solid, of grey stone, its painted door
And shutters of a weather-stain’d sea-blue,
Its slanted roof of pigeon-purple slate
Splash’d into brightness by the broidering rings
And rounds of orange lichen. Dappled too,
And crusted, was each twig of every tree
With massèd lichen, hoary, silver-gold,
Greenish or russet. For the sea, though hid,
Was not far off; on stone and bark she wrote
Her salty runes, refresh’d the brooding air
With her frank breath, and with her mighty voice
The stately stillness more majestic made;
Never remitting from that shelter’d spot
Plain signs of her eternal neighbourhood.
Yet, solitary tho’ the place might be,
And to strong influences subjected, drear
Or lonely it was not. Small sights and sounds
Pleasantly occupied it all day long—
Hens clucking ’neath the bushes; the black goat
Calling, from shed or pasture-tether; bees
From clover, sainfoin, or the low gold crowns
Of honey-vetch, with music coming home
Up thro’ the garden to the door-seat, where
Their pale straw houses glisten’d to the sun.
And from within came sounds—Pilot’s loud bark,
Or Reuben’s whistle, or the low sweet voice
Of Mercy, singing at her housewifry.
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