AFTERNOON
OME one is coming to call.
Up the red brick path between daffodils dancing
I see white ruffles that blow:
A parasol, dipping against the sun.
It is some one stout, and warm in her new white gloves.
My old green apron is smudged with the garden-mould.
My hands are the hands of a peasant-woman. My hair
Comes tumbling down into my eyes.
I wish I could lie down flat like a child
And hide in the grass, while she rings and rings,
And sticks her card under the door with a sigh,
And puffs away down the path.
I wish -- but the parasol bobs,
And she bobs like a mandarin's lady,
Smiling and bridling and beckoning.
If I were a daffodil, in an apron of green and gold--
But there she stands on the path,
And her gloves are so new they squeak with newness and stoutness,
And I know she will talk of the weather and stay an hour--
If I were a daffodil--
Or a little cool blinking bug
Down in the daffodil leaves--
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