Mrs. MacQueen

With glass like a bull's-eye
And shutters of green
Down on the cobbles
Lives Mrs. MacQueen

At six she rises;
At nine you see
Her candle shine out
In the linden tree:

And at half-past nine
Not a sound is nigh
But the bright moon's creeping
Across the sky;

Or a far dog baying;
Or a twittering bird
In its drowsy nest
In the darkness stirred;

Or like the roar
Of a distant sea
A long-drawn S-s-sh
In the linden tree