As I sat through the night
I still sit here,
Now in sunlight
But in my ear ...yet
The wild winds
Whisper and toss
And swish.
Then I feel a loss
In this bright room,
For sudden knowledge
Makes me wish
I could not recognize
The swish of broom.

And I must go; there's
No more quiet beauty.
In me there is but
Frowning duty left.
The suddenly, sweet poesy
Turns to dull prose.
And rags...
I go to gather rags;
And buckets, mops
And brooms.
Throughout the house,
In all the rooms,
I'll quietly creep
And gently sweep...