Sorrow
Sorrow stands in a wide place,
Blind—blind—
Beauty and joy are petals blown
Across her granite face,
They cannot find
Sight or sentience in stone.
Yesterday's beauty and joy lie deep
In sorrow's heart, asleep.
Prison
I close the book—the story has grown dim,
The plot confused; the hero fades
Behind unmeaning words, and over him
The covers close like window shades
On empty windows. The watchful room
Is weary. Dully the green lamp stares
Into the shadows. The coals are dumb,
The clock ticks heavily. The chairs
Wait sullenly for guests who never come.
Suppose I leave this house, suppose my feet
Plodding into the night
Carry me down the empty street
Made hideous with arcs of purple light…
Inevitably I must return to bed.
The house is waiting, chairs, and books, and clocks.
I am their prisoner. I have no more chance
Of escape, when all is said,
Than a dying beetle in a box—
And life, and love,—and death—have gone to France.
The Dream House
I steal across the sodden floor
And dead leaves blow about,
Where once we planned an iron door
To shut the whole world out;
I find the hearth, its fires unlit,
Its ashes cold—Tonight
Only the stars give warmth to it,
Only the moon gives light.
And yonder on our spacious bed
Fashioned for love and sleep
The Autumn goldenrod lies dead,
The maple-leaves lie deep.