A View of the Terrace

Under the green umbrellas
Drinking golden tea,
There sit the porcelain people
Who care for you but little
And not at all for me.

The afternoon in crinkles
Lies stiffly on the lawn
And we, two furtive exiles,
Watch from an upper window
With shutters not quite drawn.

The gilt and scalloped laughter
Reaches us through a glaze,
And almost we imagine
That if we threw a pebble
The shining scene would craze.

But stones are thrown by children,
And we by now too wise
To try again to splinter
The bright enamel people
Impervious to surprise.