Walking the suburbs in the afternoon

In summer when the idle doors stand open

And the air flows through the rooms

Fanning the curtain hems,

You wander through a cool elysium

Of women, schoolgirls, children, garden talks

With a schoolboy here and there

Conning his history book.

The men are all away in offices,

Committee-rooms, laboratories, banks,

Or pushing cotton goods

In Wick or Ilfracombe.

The massed unanimous absence liberates

The light keys of the piano and sets free

Chopin and everlasting youth,

Now, with the masters gone.

And all things turn to images of peace,

The boy curled over his book, the young girl poised

On the path as if beguiled

By the silence of a wood.

It is a child’s dream of a grown-up world.

But soon the brazen evening clocks will bring

The tramp of feet and brisk

Fanfare of motor horns

And the masters come.