The wet rags of the wind
flap in your face.

II

THE ALLEY

Because you are four years old
the candle is all dressed up in a new frill.
And stars nod to you through the hole in the curtain,
(except the big stiff planets
too fat to move about much,)
and you curtsey back to the stars
when no one is looking.
You feel sorry for the poor wooden chair
that knows it isn't nice to sit on,
and no one is sad but mama.
You don't like mama to be sad
when you are four years old,
so you pretend
you like the bitter gold-pale tea--
you pretend
if you don't drink it up pretty quick
a little gold-fish
will think it is a pond
and come and get born in it.

: :

It's hot in our street