DEATH IN LEAMINGTON

She died in the upstairs bedroom by the light of the ev’ning star
That shone through the plate glass window from over Leamington Spa.
Beside her the lonely crochet lay patiently and unstirred,
But the fingers that would have work’d it were dead as the spoken word.

And nurse came in with the tea things breast high ‘mid the stands and chairs
But nurse was alone with her own little soul, and the things were alone with theirs.
She bolted the big round window, she let the blinds unroll,
She set a match to the mantle, she covered the fire with coal.

And "Tea!" she said in a tiny voice "Wake up! It’s nearly five"
Oh! Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness, half dead and half alive!
Do you know that the stucco is peeling? Do you know that the heart will stop?
From those yellow Italianate arches do you hear the plaster drop?

Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,at the grey decaying face,
As the calm of a Leamington ev’ning drifted into the place.
She moved the table of bottles away from the bed to the wall;
And tiptoeing gently over the stairs turned down the gas in the hall.

Christmas

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
the altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
"The church looks nice" on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town hall
Says "Merry Christmas to you all."

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
and oafish louts remember Mum,
and sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas morning bells say "Come!"
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

IN A BATH TEASHOP

Let us hold hands and look

She, such an ordinary little woman;

He, such a thumping crook;

But both, for a moment, little lower than the angels

In the teashop’s ingle-nook.