Short Story

In a fine country, in a sunny country, / Among the hills I knew, / I built a house for the wren that lives in the orchard, / And a house for you. // The house I built for the wren had a round entrance, / Neat and very small; / But the house I built for you had a great doorway, / For a lady proud and tall. // You came from a country where the shrubby sweet lavender / Lives the mild winter through; / The lavender died each winter in the garden / Of the house I built for you. // You were troubled and came to me because the farmer / Called the autumn “the fall”; / You thought that a country where the lavender died in the winter / Was not a country at all. // The wrens return each year to the house in the or- chard; / They have lived, they have seen the world, they know what’s best / For a wren and his wife; in the handsome house I gave them / They build their twiggy nest. // But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home / To a leaky castle across the sea,— / To lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, / And hear the nightingale, and long for me.