| SINCE man has been articulate, | |
| Mechanical, improvidently wise, | |
| (Servant of Fate), | |
| He has not understood the little cries | |
| And foreign conversations of the small | 5 |
| Delightful creatures that have followed him | |
| Not far behind; | |
| Has failed to hear the sympathetic call | |
| Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind | |
| Reposeful Teraphim | 10 |
| Of his domestic happiness; the Stool | |
| He sat on, or the Door he entered through: | |
| He has not thanked them, overbearing fool! | |
| What is he coming to? | |
| |
| But you should listen to the talk of these. | 15 |
| Honest they are, and patient they have kept; | |
| Served him without his Thank you or his Please... | |
| I often heard | |
| The gentle Bed, a sigh between each word, | |
| Murmuring, before I slept. | 20 |
| The Candle, as I blew it, cried aloud, | |
| Then bowed, | |
| And in a smoky argument | |
| Into the darkness went. | |
| |
| The Kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:— | 25 |
| "Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know | |
| Why; and he always says I boil too slow. | |
| He never calls me "Sukie, dear," and oh, | |
| I wonder why I squander my desire | |
| Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire." | 30 |
| |
| Now the old Copper Basin suddenly | |
| Rattled and tumbled from the shelf, | |
| Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself; | |
| Without a woman's hand | |
| To patronize and coax and flatter me, | 35 |
| I understand | |
| The lean and poise of gravitable land." | |
| It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout, | |
| Twisted itself convulsively about, | |
| Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare, | 40 |
| It stares and grins at me. | |
| |
| The old impetuous Gas above my head | |
| Begins irascibly to flare and fret, | |
| Wheezing into its epileptic jet, | |
| Reminding me I ought to go to bed. | 45 |
| |
| The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door | |
| Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor | |
| Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot. | |
| Down from the chimney, half a pound of Soot | |
| Tumbles and lies, and shakes itself again. | 50 |
| The Putty cracks against the window-pane. | |
| |
| A piece of Paper in the basket shoves | |
| Another piece, and toward the bottom moves. | |
| My independent Pencil, while I write, | |
| Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock | 55 |
| Stirs all its body and begins to rock, | |
| Warning the waiting presence of the Night, | |
| Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain | |
| Ticking of ordinary work again. | |
| |
| You do well to remind me, and I praise | 60 |
| Your strangely individual foreign ways. | |
| You call me from myself to recognize | |
| Companionship in your unselfish eyes. | |
| I want your dear acquaintances, although | |
| I pass you arrogantly over, throw | 65 |
| Your lovely sounds, and squander them along | |
| My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong. | |
| |
| Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat. | |
| You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat, | |
| Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak, | 70 |
| Your touch grow kindlier from week to week. | |
| It well becomes our mutual happiness | |
| To go toward the same end more or less. | |
| There is not much dissimilarity, | |
| Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine, | 75 |
| Between the purposes of you and me, | |
| And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine. | |
