There is a beauty in neglected things,—
The violet whiteness of the settled dust
On chair and mantel, the unchallenged rust
On knives that cut sour lemon into rings.
I mark the water beetle's carven wings
Before my foot has stamped him with disgust.
This mildewed bread, I notice, has a crust
Of softer orange than the autumn brings.
Nay, let me brush a cobweb from the wall,
I am a vandal to the spider's art,—
That novel pattern crushed, what can recall?
I cannot play the housewife's grudging part,
Sponge out the artistry of time, with all
The colour and the form the hours dispart.