Let me sing in mournful numbers
Of the sorrows of the Spring,
When the house is full of plumbers
And the builder has his fling!
Ladders lean on ev'ry landing,
Pails repose on ev'ry stair,
Painters, who on planks are standing,
Block the road to ev'rywhere,
And with pigments evil-smelling
Drive us from our dismal dwelling.
Stairs are carpetless to step on,
Bannisters are far from dry,
While ( like Damocles's weapon )
Plaster threatens from on high.
Any room we chance to enter
Our depression but completes:
Chairs and tables in the centre
Hide beneath encircling sheets,
And the painters ( horrid vandals! )
Have deprived the doors of handles.
Workmen through our windows peering
Spread their pitfalls in our path;
Daily we are found adhering
To some freshly-painted bath;
Daily have our cooks contended
That, however great our grief,
Till the kitchen-range be mended,
We must live on frigid beef;
And at last we grasp the meaning
Of that fatal phrase,‘ Spring-Cleaning’!