The Letter
Across the letter, finely curled Where a neat hand had left its mark, The careful bars looked cold and stark. Her merry eye, that swept the world And soared, ecstatic, like the lark, Swooped downward, hovered, light as air. But the sharp pen's black loops and rings Tangled its vision, trapped its wings. It struggled free : and, with slow stare, Glanced through the script's embellishings.
Now it lies captured, fixed and still. The writing grips it like a grate. While the firm spokes of copper-plate Restrict its gaze within their grill It roams the lines, insatiate.
Loosely it wanders, picking words Like crumbs from the unfruitful page, Still fortifying, puffed with rage, Its private sorrows, a pet bird's. The quarto sheet has grown a cage.
Encompassed by a paper sky, Through loopholes in the text it peers, And gropes, and stumbles, wide with fears, Till weary lashes, when hopes die, Fall fluttering, through storms of tears.
Previous page
