She died in the upstairs bedroom

By the light of the ev’ning star

That shone through the plate glass window

From over Leamington Spa

Beside her the lonely crochet

Lay patiently and unstirred,

But the fingers that would have work’d it

Were dead as the spoken word.

And Nurse came in with the tea-things

Breast high ‘mid the stands and chairs-

But Nurse was alone with her own little soul,

And the things were alone with theirs.

She bolted the big round window,

She let the blinds unroll,

She set a match to the mantle,

She covered the fire with coal.

And “Tea!” she said in a tiny voice

“Wake up! It’s nearly five”

Oh! Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness,

Half dead and half alive.

Do you know that the stucco is peeling?

Do you know that the heart will stop?

From those yellow Italianate arches

Do you hear the plaster drop?

Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,

At the gray, decaying face,

As the calm of a Leamington ev’ning

Drifted into the place.

She moved the table of bottles

Away from the bed to the wall;

And tiptoeing gently over the stairs

Turned down the gas in the hall.



 

***

 

More poems by John Betjeman: