Classic Poem

At her doorway Mrs. Mayle
Grows a bush of lavender,
Large, and round, and silver-pale,
Where the blooms, a misty blur,
Lift their purple spikes on high,
Loved of butterflies and moths,
And on these, to bleach and dry,
Mrs. Mayle spreads little cloths.

Tray cloths, mats of cobweb-weave,
All of them too fairy-fine
For a careful soul to leave
Dangling on a washing-line,
Mrs. Mayle lays softly there
Till she brings them in once more,
Sweet with blossom-scented air,
From the bush beside the door.