The dull, faint patter in the drooping hours
Drifts in upon my sleep and fills my hair
With damp; the burden of the heavy air
In strewn upon me where my tired soul cowers,
Shrinking like some lone queen in empty towers
Dying. Blind with unrest I grow aware:
The pounding broad wings drifts down the stair
And sates me like the heavy scent of flowers.
I lie upon heart. My eyes like hands
Grip at the soggy pillow. Now the dawn
Tears from her wetted breast the spattered blouse
Of night; lead-eyed and moist she straggles o’er the lawn.
Between the curtains brooding stares and stands
Like some drenched swimmer—Death’s within the house
Published in Nassau Literary Magazine magazine (February 1917).