He could not see her there. Windows were wide, Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook. Smoke, like the house’s breathing, floated, sighed; Among the trembling firs strange ways it took. But still no Mary’s presence blessed his look; The house was still as if deserted, hushed. Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed. Fragrance that gave his memory’s guard a hint Of times long past, of reapers in the corn, Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint, When first the berry reddens on the thorn. Memories of her that fragrance brought. Forlorn That vigil of the watching outcast grew; He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew. The windows of the kitchen opened wide. Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke; Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside. A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke. Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke; Pourri was being made; the listener heard Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred. While an old woman made remarks to one Who was not the beloved: Michael learned That Roger’s wife at Upton had a son, And that the red geraniums should be turned; A hen was missing, and a rick was burned; Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke; The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke. Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door; A dairymaid, whom he remembered well, Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before, Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell. He saw the dining-room; he could not tell If Mary were within: inly he knew That she was coming now, that she would be in blue. Blue with a silver locket at the throat, And that she would be there, within there, near, With the little blushes that he knew by rote, And the gray eyes so steadfast and so dear, The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear, Speaking to her belov’d within the room. The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom, Watching intently from below the boughs, While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay, Eyed the high clouds and went within the house. His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray. Dinner began within with much to say. Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke. Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke. Nor could her lover see her from the yew; She was not there at table; she was ill, Ill, or away perhaps--he wished he knew. Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still. “If sick,” he thought, “the maid or Lion will Take food to her.” He watched; the dinner ended. The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended.