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The fuchsias dangle on their stem, The baby girl looks up at them, The light comes through the muslin frill Upon the painted window-sill.

She cannot see the world outside Where men in snorting motors ride, Each speeding from his far abode To town, along the Fulham Road.

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My night-dress hangs on fire-guard rail And my cup of milk on the table stands, The day goes down like a distant sail And leaves me undressed in my Mother’s hands.

She has washed me clean of the long day’s grime And the pillow is cool for my sleepy head, For the Angelus-bell with its three-fold chime Has tolled the sun and myself to bed.

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While I stand upon the pavement and I dress the dusty stall, Where they sell the travelled apples, I bethink me most of all How the Quarentines are ripening in Michelmarsh again And the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-clinking up the lane.

Sweet and slim the Ladies’ Fingers fall around you as you pass, And the Hollycores are mellow by the pig-hole in the grass, ’Tis but green they look, you pluck them, and you list the ratt’ling core— And the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-chaffering at the door.