Five O’Clock

IN the old times of golden-gowned Romance,

When deeds wore grace, and color clung to speech,

When days were rich in splendid circumstance,

And living had a gesture and a reach—

Then had we been what figures in a tale!

You, with your crown of bronze and cloudy hair,

Child of what castle—till my dinted mail

Gleamed on your drawbridge, and you met me there.

Who knows what roads we might have gone together,

Helped by what friars to evening crust and ale,

With candles sputtering in the windy weather….

Something … my soul remembers … and gives hail

To you who sit there, pouring out my tea,

Something … remembers … “Yes, ah, thank you—three.”