Clouds of children round the trough

Splash and clatter in the sun:

Their clouted shoes are mostly off,

And some are quarrelling, and one

Cools half her face, nose downward bubbling,

Wetting her clo’es and never troubling;

Bobble, bobble, bobble there

Till bubbles like young earthquakes heave

The orange island of her hair,

And tidal waves run up her sleeve;

Another’s tanned as brown as bistre;

Another ducks his little sister,

And all are mixed in such a crowd

And tell their separate joys so loud

That who can be this silent one,

This dimpled, pensive, baby one?

—She sits the sunny steps so still

For hours, trying hard to kill

One fly at least of those that buzz

So cannily ...