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My mother
Foresaw deaths
And walked among
Chrysanthemums,
Winecolored,
Withered rose,
The earthy blossoms.
My very breath
Disowned
In nights of study,
And page by page
I came on spring.
The rats run on the roof,
These words come hard---
Sadder than cockcrow
In a dreamless, earthen sleep.
The Christ, eternal
In the scented cold; my love,
Her hand on the sill
White, as if out of earth;
And spring, the sleep of the dead.
Yvor Winters
Read poems about / on: spring, sleep, rose, mother, dark, love, running
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Yvor Winters
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