They have a small daughter, and not too much money. They say That things must look up, by and by. They are merry and brave, They have grey days and bright days and days of play; And they always enjoy together the things that they have. And often I envy my friends, as I sit and read All alone with my books and my thoughts, without child or wife: And I think I should like to marry very much indeed— If only the marriage sentence weren’t for life. _First Floor Back_ Little room with the stone grey walls and the dusty books And a stone paved yard outside, and a high brick wall (And beyond the wall the trains to and fro passing All day and all night)— How I regret you now, little room with no view! I shall never see you again. There I was all alone with my own wild heart. And now I have lent my heart: it is no more mine. There I was free to soar or to sink, no one speaking a word, Nothing holding me back, or distracting, or bidding me think Of callers “coming at five.” No one ever called, in that small bleak room. No one called, it was cold. All alone Came the night to me And the bitter, grey London morning. And I was rich, with my bare grey walls, Rich, with my thoughts and dreams, Who now am poor— Imprisoned by plenty and by the years. _Maisonnettes_ (_Harrow Road_) The houses in Windermere Street are let off in floors, Which perhaps is the reason it always seems so to “swarm.” Little groups of girls and young men gather round its front doors And keen eyes at all windows observe who is “coming to harm.” Every one in the street knew at once about poor Lizzie Brown! They saw the young chap she took up with, and “knew how ’twould be”; And they know why the blinds of the house at the corner are down, _And who pays the second floor’s rent, at a hundred and three._ _Walworth Road_ Dreams fairly haunt the Walworth Road (S.E.); Ride on the bonnets of the passers-by; Slide down the chimneys, and fly in between Warped, weasened doors and well-worn lintel-boards; Come in at windows and invade small rooms To chatter archly in old women’s ears, Making them laugh cracked laughter, deep in the throat, And weep with sweet, long, memorable thoughts.... They make bent grandfathers recall the day They played the fool in the sun, under the sky, And were the deuce with women, and finer chaps “Than ever you get, in these degenerate time....” And then, they love to hover where maids sleep, Stirring the dewy lashes of soft eyes, Dimpling warm cheeks and parting tender lips. And in small ears, half-hidden in tangled curls, They tinkle such sly secrets of delight, That, when the sun cries “shame” to slugabeds, These wake, cooing like doves, with little trills and laughs And memories of a kiss, in that dream world Where “he” had swapped his bowler for a crown, And was a prince, and rode a great white horse!...