Doubting, she stood the dishes in the rack, ’We’ll ask her in some evening, then,’ she said, ’How nice her hair looked in the bit of black.’ And still she peered from eyes all dim and red To note at once if Jimmy drooped his head, Or if his ears blushed when he heard her praised, And Jimmy blushed and hung his head and gazed. ’This is the end,’ she thought. ’This is the end. I’ll have to sew again for Mr Jones, Do hems when I can hardly see to mend, And have the old ache in my marrow-bones. And when his wife’s in child-bed, when she groans, She’ll send for me until the pains have ceased, And give me leavings at the christening feast. And sit aslant to eye me as I eat, "You’re only wanted here, ma’am, for to-day, Just for the christ’ning party, for the treat, Don’t ever think I mean to let you stay; Two’s company, three’s none, that’s what I say." Life can be bitter to the very bone When one is poor, and woman, and alone. ’Jimmy,’ she said, still doubting, ’Come, my dear, Let’s have our "Binger," ’fore we go to bed,’ And then ’The parson’s dog,’ she cackled clear, ’Lep over stile,’ she sang, nodding her head. ’His name was little Binger.’ ’Jim,’ she said, ’Binger, now, chorus’ ... Jimmy kicked the hob, The sacrament of song died in a sob. Jimmy went out into the night to think Under the moon so steady in the blue. The woman’s beauty ran in him like drink, The fear that men had loved her burnt him through; The fear that even then another knew All the deep mystery which women make To hide the inner nothing made him shake. ’Anna, I love you, and I always shall.’ He looked towards Plaister’s End beyond Cot Hills. A white star glimmered in the long canal, A droning from the music came in thrills. Love is a flame to burn out human wills, Love is a flame to set the will on fire, Love is a flame to cheat men into mire. One of the three, we make Love what we choose, But Jimmy did not know, he only thought That Anna was too beautiful to lose, That she was all the world and he was naught, That it was sweet, though bitter, to be caught. ’Anna, I love you.’ Underneath the moon, ’I shall go mad unless I see you soon.’ The fair’s lights threw aloft a misty glow. The organ whangs, the giddy horses reel, The rifles cease, the folk begin to go, The hands unclamp the swing-boats from the wheel, There is a smell of trodden orange peel; The organ drones and dies, the horses stop, And then the tent collapses from the top. The fair is over, let the people troop, The drunkards stagger homewards down the gutters, The showmen heave in an excited group, The poles tilt slowly down, the canvas flutters, The mauls knock out the pins, the last flare sputters. ’Lower away.’ ’Go easy.’ ’Lower, lower.’ ’You’ve dang near knock my skull in. Loose it slower.’