poetry site

there was never a sound beside the wood but one
just as my fingers on these keys
they may talk of love in a cottage
now while my lips are living
why do you always stand there shivering
in his guarded tent
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
which i wish to remark
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
he came and took me by the hand
desolate and lone