Dorothy Butts

From “The Passers-by”

GIVE me the old familiar things,

Though they be very plain:

The quaint old tune Joanna sings,

The small house in a lane,

Whose fragrance meets the open door;

The faded carpet on the floor,

The patient peace of furniture—

Familiar things I can endure.

I have been brave a long, long while,

Heard praise, and scorning afterward;

I have met eyes that did not smile,

And now I ask for my reward.

I know the panoramic strand

Of happiness, and grief’s sequence.

Rough grains have scratched my venturous hand.

I beg no tribute nor defence;

I only ask familiar things—

The quaint old tune Joanna sings.