Making The Best Of Things
The train will pass above these gardens
In the mid-spring evenings
For many years to come,
And the downlookers
Will guage the fading daffodils
Against the sound, greening lawns.
They will not fail to see
The garden tools
Staked against the Winter-worn sheds,
Ready for the eager hands.
But who in a thousand thousand
Will see the man
At the end of his work
Standing in the cooling haze,
Known only in suburban evenings,
Wondering where the hours have gone,
Preparing for the hesitating drift
Indoors to drink tea,
And end his day in conversation,
Made dishonest through preoccupation
With thoughts of repeated refuge
Among his weeds, and mouldering leaves.
Only one in a great many will look down
To, fleetingly, join his eyes in the sadness
Of making the best of things.