Classic Poem

Why will they murmur at my door
So low that I can scarcely hear,
And yet so loud they catch the ear
With some detached, exciting word?
And there I strain my ears but miss
The clue, and so they buzz and hiss
In hushed soft sibilants once more.
I held my breath and never stirred
Just now because the door-bell pealed
And hasty feet ran through the hall.
Who knows what news those sounds revealed?
I wish that I could hear it all,
Or never know one word about
The busy world that lies without.

Things that I've never seen before
Have lately grown so very clear,
The stains and patches on the wall,
That crack which from the corner here
Looks like a woman in a shawl.
Pictures and books and wash-hand stand
All interest me as here I lie.
I feel like some one come to buy
These things a bargain second-hand.
And then I turn my eyes to stare
At flies that wander everywhere.
It fills me somehow with surprise
The world should be so full of flies.
I'm half amused to see them crawl
About the quilt and on my sheet.
They pause and clean their tiny feet,
Flies are particularly neat.
For coat tails they have little wings,
They rub their hands like some urbane
Young counter-jumper who in vain
Would make you buy his worthless things.
But undepressed, for flies are clever,
A snub to them is nought whatever;
They have a game they play with me,
Tom Tiddler's ground upon my arm —
When I get cross they hum with glee,
They dare me on to do them harm.
And then they smile with their great eyes
And buzz away on feckless wings,
For flies are really queens and kings
And rule the world. — I never knew
Before I took to bed — did you?
The world was quite so full of flies