There’ll be no one in the house,
Save for twilight. All alone,
The winter day will be aroused
From the curtains left undrawn.
Only clusters, wet and white,
Flashing where the wind propels,
Only roofs and snow,—besides
Roofs and snow,—nobody else.
Frost, again, will shade the windows,
And again, they’ll reappear—
Worries of the prior winter,
And the sadness of last year.
And the guilt, that’s yet unpardoned,
Will be piercing and sustained,
And the fire’s growing hunger
Will press on the window pane.
Suddenly, disturbed and vexed,
Curtains will proceed to tremble.
Marking silence with your steps,
Like the future, you will enter.
You’ll appear all of the sudden,
Wearing something plain and white,
Something of the very cotton
Used to knit the flakes outside.