Prison

I close the book — the story has grown dim,

The plot confused; the hero fades

Behind unmeaning words, and over him

The covers close like window shades

On empty windows. The watchful room

Is weary. Dully the green lamp stares

Into the shadows. The coals are dumb,

The clock ticks heavily. The chairs

Wait sullenly for guests who never come.

Suppose I leave this house, suppose my feet

Plodding into the night

Carry me down the empty street

Made hideous with arcs of purple light...

Inevitably I must return to bed.

The house is waiting, chairs, and books, and clocks.

I am their prisoner. I have no more chance

Of escape, when all is said,

Than a dying beetle in a box —

And life, and love,— and death — have gone to France.