-Elizabeth Brewster
Do you remember the houseboat that came and anchored
Out in the midst of the lake, one day in summer?
One of the boys rowed us out. We climbed on board,
And the skipper, old John Brown, showed us around.
"Just like a house," we said, and saw his kitchen,
With mugs and pancake flour stored on the shelf,
And his tidy bedroom with his bunk and books.
And always after that we envied him--
I did at least--able to drop his anchor
Out there on the Lake and look across the water
At ordinary householders on shore.
It must have been like living on an island
In a world separate as a rounded shell.
Water lapped him to sleep and dawn awoke him.
The fibrous yellow lilies floated near,
And trees along the shore cast green reflections.
The daytime sun was lazy on the ripples,
And in the evening all the farmhouse lights
Glinted like warmer stars fallen from the skies.
Perhaps those houses seemed enchanted too
To one who watched their lights shine on the water
And wondered who had lit the yellow lamps
Or stood beside the windows looking out.