poetry archive

melancholy days have come
eighty years have passed, and more
in the dark and peace of my final bed
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
high walls and huge
gloom
the air is like a butterfly
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
the body may confine
there was a time in former years
that year
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
she might have known it in the earlier spring