Sight or sentience in stone.

Yesterday's beauty and joy lie deep
In sorrow's heart, asleep.

Prison

I close the book--the story has grown dim,
The plot confused; the hero fades
Behind unmeaning words, and over him
The covers close like window shades
On empty windows. The watchful room
Is weary. Dully the green lamp stares
Into the shadows. The coals are dumb,
The clock ticks heavily. The chairs
Wait sullenly for guests who never come.

Suppose I leave this house, suppose my feet
Plodding into the night
Carry me down the empty street
Made hideous with arcs of purple light...
Inevitably I must return to bed.
The house is waiting, chairs, and books, and clocks.
I am their prisoner. I have no more chance
Of escape, when all is said,
Than a dying beetle in a box--
And life, and love,--and death--have gone to France.

The Dream House