A CUP OF TEA

Now Grietje from her window sees the leafless poplars lean Against a windy sunset sky with streaks of golden green; The still canal is touched with light from that wild, wintry sky, And, dark and gaunt, the windmill flings its bony arms on high. “It’s growing late; it’s growing cold; I’m all alone,” says she; “I’ll put the little kettle on, to make a cup of tea!” Mild radiance from the porcelain stove reflects on shining tiles; The kettle beams, so red and bright that Grietje thinks it smiles; The kettle sings—so soft and low it seems as in a dream— The song that’s like a lullaby, the pleasant song of steam: “The summer’s gone; the storks are flown; I’m always here, you see, To sing and sing, and shine, and shine, and make a cup of tea!” The blue delft plates and dishes gleam, all ranged upon the shelf; The tall Dutch clock tick-ticks away, just talking to itself; The brindled pussy cuddles down, and basks and blinks and purrs; And rosy, sleepy Grietje droops that snow-white cap of hers. “I do like winter after all; I’m very glad,” says she, “I put—my—little—kettle—on—to make—a cup—of—tea!”