Elena Fearn
The Room
Suddenly, 'The room is cold'
You say, waiting here for spring,
And 'Frost is on the window'.
I, from my hard chair,
Measure the cold ; my hand trembles ;
There is no more than winter's right,
And no less fire than always.
But it freezes in the room.
And no sorrow great as this,
That I your winter face
Cannot bring from numbness.
Spring is not in the clock
From which you expect
Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! to chime
In ecstasy of time.
The clock has stopped.
'So' you say at last, 'is spring
Impossible, will not come' ;
Seeing no spring here
Nor how tall she stalks
In this cold room,
Through so dark duress
Smiling entirely,
Nor seeing her draw with faithful hand
Her skeleton flowers on the glass.
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