Page:Collected poems vol 2 de la mare.djvu/177

And the horned snail leaves home:
I've sat there, whispering and listening there,
In the little green orchard.
 
Only it's strange to be feeling there,
In the little green orchard;
Whether you paint or draw,
Dig, hammer, chop, or saw;
When you are most alone.
All but the silence gone . . .
Some one is waiting and watching there,
In the little green orchard.