LAST night again we saw him there Beneath the plane-tree in the Square, Our student neighbour. He watches every evening now Our garden tennis, and somehow It seemed a labour The running round, and futile stretching At random balls while he was sketching That foolish Polly Who quietly stood, with arm up-raised, The while her junior partner praised Her style of volley. I passed so near him, as we played, He looked so peaceful in the shade, Amid our bustle. He draws and sketches all the day, And studies through the night, they say, Some bone or muscle. And is this why his cheek is pale, And why he looks so thin and frail, And is such labour The reason that his coat is bare, And worn, and marks him everywhere -- Our student neighbour? I know that I shall almost cry, To-morrow when we pass him by, All bound to-gether For Cornish seas, while he -- but there Miss Polly's always in the Square This summer weather. |