The door is shut, the window is open.
The gossamer curtains are dancing in the breeze
And I hear, distantly, a squirrel chattering in the trees.
The world is quiet here.
No music plays but that of Silence and Solitude.
The house is full of it, the blessed quiet.
No greater joy is there but freedom from chaos and riot.
The world is quiet here.
Here I sit, seemingly alone, but not quite alone.
There are three of us, in thoughtful conference:
Me, my Lord, and my Muse, in creative ambience.
The world is quiet here.
Now and then I write a poem, now a song,
Or another chapter in my book, my mind’s child.
I love this world, this isolation, so calm, so mild.
The world is quiet here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I didn't realize this was a sad occasion.