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Walter de la Mare - Miss Loo
Work rating: Low

When thin-strewn memory I look through, 
I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, 
Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, 
Her nose, her hair — her muffled words, 
And how she`d open her green eyes, 
As if in some immense surprise, 
Whenever as we sat at tea, 
She made some small remark to me. 

It`s always drowsy summer when 
From out the past she comes again; 
The westering sunshine in a pool 
Floats in her parlour still and cool; 
While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, 
As into piercing song it breaks 
Till Peter`s pale-green eyes ajar 
Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar; 
And I am sitting , dull and shy 
And she with gaze of vacancy, 
And large hands folded on the tray, 
Musing the afternoon away; 
Her satin bosom heaving slow 
With sighs that softly ebb and flow, 
And her plain face in such dismay, 
It seems unkind to look her way: 
Until all cheerful back will come 
Her cheerful gleaming spirit home: 
And one would think that poor Miss Loo 
Asked nothing else, if she had you.
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