Echoes

Lady Clara Vere de Vere
      Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.

      She took her little porringer:
      Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her down.

      “Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
      There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four.”

      “Kind words are more than coronets,”
      She said, and wondering looked at me:
“It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea.”