Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/138

 Marvelled at the large cheer in a naked glistening man; Yet soon fell in with that contented mood, That when our hut's light broke on his new mind lie could not credit it—too soon it seemed: The stranger man's talk was witchery. I pray his baking be as magical; The cakes should be nigh burnt.

They are laid by to cool, housewife.

Bring me the sherbet from the ledge and the fast-dried figs.