Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A FANTASY, by MARGARET SACKVILLE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A FANTASY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: A little house beside the sea
Last Line: And nothing else is worth a pin!
Subject(s): Fantasy


A LITTLE house beside the sea;
A little house with a green door;
A rather ugly little house;
Because we're really very poor—
Poor as a rat or a Church Mouse,
And things are not quite what they used to be!

Gracious! Goodness! How we've wandered
Hither, thither, up and down
Through the streets of every town;
Lived, loved, quarrelled, laughed and squandered
Happiness and gold; we go
Wild and secret, finger on lip,
Columbine and Harlequin!
We're here to-night, then away we slip
And nobody knows what place we're in
On what seas sailing, or what ship;
In jungles wet with tropic rain,
Or wrapped in furs up to the skin,
In Iceland—Italy or Spain,
India, Rome—a Sussex lane,
It doesn't matter—a windy scud
Catches us and off we spin,
To some new land of sand or mud,
Light of foot and heart and toe;
The moon has risen, the sea's at flood,
A ship goes sailing: that's all we know.
Neither of us will ever grow old,
(That's the fairy gift we carry).
Neither of us will ever grow old
Or die, or know remorse, or marry.—
But summer ends, it's just a little cold;
A little cold. There's not much fun
And not much money. Let us fold
Our wings a moment. It will be such fun
To play at being very wise and good
And care about our comfort and our food,
Till the days shorten and you cease to smile
And I grow critical and cross. Meanwhile:—

A little house, with a green door,
It stands alone, not far from the seashore,
Weather-stained, with bright red tiles;
Behind, the golf-links stretch for miles,
With golfers, solemn and intent.
Somebody has pitched a tent
Quite close—a spectacled, red-haired
Young man, who looks half pleased, half scared,
If you should smile at him. We've got
A few square yards of garden-plot,
A peacock of clipped yew with straggly feet,
One rose and heaps of groundsel and wild wheat,
A croquet lawn and five bent hoops. The grass
Is rather brown and very long. It was
Quite tidy once—but then the garden shears
Got lost and no one's touched it for three years.
Inside the door there's an umbrella-stand,
Which nearly fills the hall—a very grand
Barometer, galoshes and old shoes,
A coat too old for anyone to use,
A broken fishing-rod, some walking-sticks,
And two small safety lamps with untrimmed wicks.
The parlour's on the right, it's rather small
And dark and you and I are just too tall,
We have to stoop our heads—but here we'll sit
Every evening whilst the fire is lit.
Whilst you read travels from a fat red book—
A school First Prize—Stanley or Captain Cook,
I shall knit Winter Comforts for the Poor.
We'll hear the night wind knocking at the door
And yawn ourselves to bed and when the rain
Batters impatiently at the window-pane
Sleep all the sounder. Breakfast will be laid
By Sarah who was once a still-room maid
In a good house—a little cross and fat,
With two teeth missing and a sandy cat,
But very honest. Such a lucky find
Now servants are so scarce! I'll sit behind
A huge brown tea-pot and pour out the tea,
And say it's either rough or calm at sea
Or going to rain and you'll just grunt and say
That there's no news of any kind to-day—
England's not what it used to be, and then
We'll walk upon the beach till half-past ten
For an hour or so then buy twelve postage stamps,
Shoe-laces and some oil for the lamps.
Perhaps later in the day, for a great treat,
Not often (since we're very poor) we'll eat
Cakes at the tea-shop, currant buns and jam,
Most recklessly and never care a damn
Though we spend up to three and six until:—

Until some morning, very cold and grey
You'll talk in the most irritating way
And I shall stonily drink tea and spill
The salt abstractedly and forget to fill
The tea-pot, then you'll leap quite suddenly up
And smash a plate and drop a cup
And seize me by the arm and cry,
"Look there, look there, beside the quay!"
And I shall look and almost die
Of joy, for there our ship will be
Back in harbour, once again,—
Not the sort of ship you'd expect to see
With golden ropes and silken sails
But a rather grimy, rather plain
Tramp-steamer, wet with many gales
Bound for Africa or Spain:—
Our ship, our ship and no mistake!
We know her—there's no time to lose,
I'll just rush up and change my shoes,
Put on some sort of cloak and break
The news to Sarah, then away
Off again, away we'll ride
Out to sea at the turn of the tide,
(The tide which turns at the full moon)
To stay for ever or come back soon,
Columbine and Harlequin—
In a scud of foam away we'll spin
Bound for what strange country-side
With what new joys to lose or win?—
What does it matter? The seas are wide
And nothing else is worth a pin!





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