The outline of a withered tree. The pigeons feeding round this bench. Your eyes, and your insipid plea For arms around your waist. The window Of a tea-room, 'cross the park. Long shadows, followed by the glow Of lights. Your lips, your lips, your lips— All, all tell me, in a manner discreet, It's five o'clock and time to eat! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GROWN-UP TALK by KATHERINE MANSFIELD WESTERN CIVILIZATION by JAMES GALVIN |