Cottager is given the Bird ( 1921 )

Sidelong the Bird ran,

Hard-eyed on the turned mould:

Was door — window — wide?

— Then Heart grew kettle-cold.

Might no wind-suckt curtain

Dim that travelling Eye?

Could Door's thick benediction

Deafen: if he should cry?

Sidelong the Bird crept

Into the stark door:

His yellow, lidless eye!

Foot chill to the stone floor!

... Then Smoke, that slender baby,

To Hearth's white Niobe-breast

Sank trembling — dead. Oh Bird,

Bird, spare the rest!

He has bidden bats to flit

In Window's wide mouth:

Starlings to tumble, and mock

Poor Pot's old rusty drouth:

And a wet canker, nip

Those round-breasted stones

That I hugged to strong walls

With the love of my strained bones.

He bad lank Spider run,

Grow busy, web me out

With dusty trespass stretcht

From mantel to kettle-spout.

Door, Window, Rafter, Chimney,

Grow silent, die:

All are dead: all moulder:

Sole banished mourner I.

See how the Past rustles

Stirring to life again...

Three whole years left I lockt

Behind that window-pane.