  I DO not know what you are like—I know not where you go; I’ve never seen you as you jolt along the streets below. It’s always in the early morn my house you rattle by, And banish sleep that won’t return, however hard I try. I wonder if the fiend, who drives like mad through Gower Street, And on the asphalte likes to hear his horse’s heavy feet, And bangs against the kerb and makes his swaying milk-cans crash, Desires to settle straight away a nervous mortal’s hash. Through weary hours I lie awake and toss from side to side, A genuine Jekyll tortured by a much too real Hyde; And when at last my drooping lids have shut that Hyde away, The early milk-cart rattles by and bids the demon stay. You little reck, you noisy thing, as ’neath the fading stars You jump and jolt, that every jerk on some poor toiler jars; You little reck, as merrily your cans together bang, You’ve roused a serpent in my breast which has a poisoned fang. All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast, Sometimes I sail o’er summer seas where ne’er a shadow’s cast; And youth and hope are mine again, and life’s a sweet green isle That sleeps upon the ocean’s breast and basks in heaven’s smile. My lazy barque floats placidly towards that haven fair, The sunny slopes grow nearer still—one moment, and I’m there; One little leap from deck to shore—I wake with quite a start, The milk-cans dance a carmagnole upon that early cart. Yet sometimes have I cause to bless the awful noise they make, ’Tis when from some infernal dream their crashing bids me wake; When on my breast a demon sits, who’s marked me for his prey, I’m glad that milk-carts go about so early in the day. Pass on, disturber of my rest—pass on thy way unseen; You little know how very near to murder you have been; Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his share In making me the wreck I am—and p’r’aps he doesn’t care. Yet when I sleep the dreamless sleep in that great silent town, Where ne’er a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down— The coroner who sat on me may possibly suggest That “Died of too much early milk” would suit my tombstone best. |
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