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.