Dull and hard the low wind creaksAmong the rustling pampas plumes.Drearily the year consumesIts fifty-two insipid weeks.
Most of the grey-green meadow landWas sold in parsimonious lots;The dingy houses standPressed by some stout contractor's handTightly together in their plots.
Through builded banks the sullen riverGropes, where its houses crouch and shiver.Over the bridge the tyrant trainShrieks, and emerges on the plain.
In all the better gardens you may pass,(Product of many careful Saturdays),Large red geraniums and tall pampas grassAdorn the plots and mark the gravelled ways.
Sometimes in the background may be seenA private summer-house in white or green.Here on warm nights the daughter bringsHer vacillating clerk,To talk of small exciting thingsAnd touch his fingers through the dark.
He, in the uncomfortable breachBetween her trilling laughters,Promises, in halting speech,Hopeless immense Hereafters.She trembles like the pampas plumes.Her strained lips haggle. He assumesThe serious quest .Àæ
Now as the train is whistling pastHe takes her in his arms at last.
It's done. She blushes at his sideAcross the lawn.-a bride, a bride.
The stout contractor will design,The lazy labourers will prepare,Another villa on the line;In the litte garden-squarePampas grass will rustle there.
