*

Weep, weep, and fasten the gate.
The moon is a laggard, —the straight
Lines from the stars, the star-threads
Streak the elms, the bowed leaf-heads.


I wait, and my love, he is late;
Broken apart with some grief,
Walking the mould of the leaf,
Treading as the stricken treads.


No more this home…nor these doors
To open, to startle, to shut,
Announcing our angers—to cut
The air back and forth like our wills.


Seal the door-sills.