Short Story

In a fine country, in a sunny country,
Among the hills I knew,
I built a house for the wren that lives in the orchard,
And a house for you.

The house I built for the wren had a round entrance,
Neat and very small;
But the house I built for had you a great doorway,
For a lady proud and tall.

You came from a country where the shrubby sweet lavender
Lives the mild winter through;
The lavender died each winter in the garden
Of the house I built for you.

You were troubled and came to me because the farmer
Called the autumn “the fall”;
You thought that a country where the lavender died in the winter
Was not a country at all.

The wrens return each year to the house in the orchard;
They have lived, they have seen the world, they know what’s best
For a wren and his wife; in the handsome house I gave them
They build their twiggy nest.

But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home
To a leaky castle across the sea,—
To lie awake in linen smelling of lavender,
And hear the nightingale, and long for me.