Katherine Mansfield

Grant me the moment, the lovely
That I may lean forth to
The other buds, the other blooms,
The other leaves on the tree:

Now this is the story of
Who ages and ages
Lived right on the top of a mountain,
A mountain all covered with snow

Playing in the fire and twilight together,
My little son and I,
Suddenly—woefully—I stoop to catch him
"Try, mother, try

Now it is Loneliness who comes at
Instead of Sleep, to sit beside my bed
Like a tired child I lie and wait her tread,
I watch her softly blowing out the light

That deaf old
With his hand to his ear—His hand to hi head stood out like a shell,
Horny and hollow
He said, "I can't hear,"He muttered, "Don't shout,

Now folds the Tree of Day its perfect flowers,
And every bloom becomes a bud again,
Shut and sealed up against the golden
Of bees that hover in the velvet hours…

Half-Past-Six and I were
In a very grown-up way;
We had got so tired with
That we did not want to play