Walter de La Mare

Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.

It's a very odd thing- As odd as can be- That whatever Miss T. eats Turns into Miss T. Porridge and apples, Mince, muffins and mutton, Jam, junket , jumbles- Not a rap, not a button It matters; the moment They're out of her plate, Though shared by Miss Butcher And sour Mr. Bate, Tiny and cheerful, And neat as can be, Whatever Miss T. eats Turns into Miss T.

When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovelier things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies. When music sounds, out of the water rise Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes, Rapt in strange dream burns each enchanted face, With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place. When music sounds, all that I was I am Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came; And from Time's woods break into distant song The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.