My mornings’ glory, my evenings’ nest,
You were my mooring in life’s unrest.
(But let us agree it was not love, if that is what makes you feel good: we never even had a song for us.)
Now all that I have must seem enough
For nothing more can be had.
On a stained pink bed-cloth lies tarnished,
Freezing, frozen Silver.
No comments:
Post a Comment