QUIET NEIGHBOURS

Sitting alone at night Careless of time, From the house next door I hear the clock chime. Ten, eleven, twelve; One, two, three— It is all the same to the clock, And much the same to me. But to-night more than sense heard it: I opened my eyes wide To look at the wall and wonder What lay on the other side. They are quiet people That live next door; I never hear them scrape Their chairs along the floor, They do not laugh loud, or sing, Or scratch in the grate, I have never seen a taxi Drawn up at their gate; And though their back-garden Is always neat and trim It has a humbled look, And no one walks therein. So did not their chiming clock Imply some hand to wind it, I might doubt if the wall between us Had any life behind it. London neighbours are such That I may never know more Than this of the people Who live next door. While they, for their part, Should they hazard a guess At me on my side of the wall Will know as little, or less; For my life has grown quiet, As quiet as theirs; And the clock has been silent on my chimney-piece For years and for years.