The fingers of the tortured boughs
Gripped by the blast
Clutch at the windows of your house
Closed fast.
And the lost child of love, despair,
Cries in the night,
Remembering how once those windows were
Open and bright.



POEM: THE VAULT--AFTER SEDGMOOR



You need not call at the Inn;
I have ordered my bed:
Fair linen sheets therein
And a tester of lead.
No musty fusty scents
Such as inn chambers keep,
But tapestried with content
And hung with sleep.

My Inn door bears no bar
Set up against fear.
The guests have journeyed far,
They are glad to be here.
Where the damp arch curves up grey,
Long, long shall we lie;