Always Far from the Centre of Our Names

Always far from the centre of our names,
The little workshop of love: yes, but how wrong
We were about the old manors and the long
Abandoned Folly and the children’s games.

Only the acquisitive expects a quaint
Unsalable product, something to please
An artistic girl; it’s the selfish who sees
In every impractical beggar a saint.

We can’t believe that we ourselves designed it,
A minor item of our daring plan
That caused no trouble; we took no notice of it.

Disaster comes, and we’re amazed to find it
The single project that since work began
Through all the cycle showed a steady profit.