IN THE PARLOUR (ii)
Reading edition
He How unobtrusively the snow Comes down beyond the crimson blind! I see it not, but through my mind Sieve the large flakes, both soft and slow, Warding us in from humankind.
She My nimble needle forth and back Goes twanging through the tambour-frame To stitch a bird without a name. If an indifferent heart should crack ’Twould sound, I fancy, much the same.
He A cruel night for beast or man To be abroad. But we might doubt By this warm hearth the snow shut out, Save for a denser silence than Is wont to compass us about.
She The needle and the web, how fine! The silks no thicker than a hair! Each choice of tint calls forth my care, And slowly goes the great design. No matter. I have time to spare.
He ’Twill soon be time to go to bed— Sweet bed, but cold! Drowsed though I be I’ll sit it out until I see The wooden bird put forth his head, And beck, and cry Cuckoo! to me.
She With every length of gliding floss Wrought in to make my sampler gay So much life’s thread I stitch away. But this bright wing will flaunt the gloss Of life when I am dull as clay.
He She He She He She He Cuckoo! Cuckoo! My dear, you heard The clock? Another evening gone! Asleep? Not quite. You’ve scarcely stirred. In grave consideration My thoughts upon that silly bird Were fixed. And mine on this. Absurd! We even think in unison.