I made a house of houselessness,

A garden of your going:

And seven trees of seven wounds

You gave me, all unknowing:

I made a feast of golden grief

That you so lordly left me,

I made a bed of all the smiles

Whereof your lip bereft me:

I made a sun of your delay,

Your daily loss, his setting:

I made a wall of all your words

And a lock of your forgetting.



Rose O'Neill