Category: Poetry
In this room my father died: His bed is in the corner. No one has slept in it Since the morning when he wakened To meet death's hands at his heart. I cannot go to this room, Without feeling something big and angry Waiting for me To throw me on the bed, And press its thumbs in...
I remember there was once a man went down To clean it. He found it very cold and deep, With a queer niche in one of its sides, From which he hauled forth buckets of bricks and d...
5. PART II. THE ATTICDust hangs clogged so thick The air has a dusty taste: Spider threads cling to my face, From the broad pine-beams. There is nothing living here, The house below might be quite e...
4. PART I. THE HOUSEIn this room my father died: His bed is in the corner. No one has slept in it Since the morning when he wakened To meet death's hands at his heart. I cannot go to this room, Wit...
3. PART III. THE LAWN2. PART II. THE ATTIC1. PART I. THE HOUSE