Still-life

Through the open French window the warm sun Lights up the polished breakfast-table, laid Round a bowl of crimson roses, for one - A service of Worcester porcelain, arrayed Near it a melon, peaches, figs, small hot Rolls in a napkin, fairy rack of toast, Butter in ice, high silver coffee-pot, And, heaped on a salver, the morning's post. She comes over the lawn, the young heiress, From her early walk in her garden-wood, Feeling that life's a table set to bless Her delicate desires with all that's good. That even the unopened future lies Like a love-letter, full of sweet surprise.