Classic Poem

The Winter Fire

Winter without, but in the curtained room
Flushed into beauty by a fluttering fire
Shuttered and blinded from the ugly street
A woman sits—her hands locked round her knees
And bending forward…O'er her loosened hair
The firelight spins a web of shining gold
Sears her pale mouth with kisses passionate
Wraps her tired body in a hot embrace . .
Propped by the fender her rain sodden boots
Steam, and suspended from the iron bed
Her coat and skirt—her wilted, draggled hat.
But she is happy. Huddled by the fire
All recollections of the dim grey day
Dwindle to nothingness, and she forgets
That in the street outside the rain which falls
Muddies the pavement to a greasy brown.
That, in the morning she must start again
And search again for that which will not come—
She does not feel the sickening despair
That creeps into her bones throughout the day.
In her great eyes—dear Christ—the light of dreams
Lingered and shone. And she, a child again
Saw pictures in the fire. Those other days
The rambling house, the cool sweet scented rooms
The portraits on the walls, and China bowls
Filled with ‘pot pourri’. On her rocking chair
Her sofa pillow broidered with her name—
She saw again her bedroom, very bare
The blue quilt worked with daisies white and gold
Where she slept, dreamlessly. . . .
…Opening her window, from the new mown lawn
The fragrant, fragrant scent of perfumed grass
The lilac tossing in the shining air
Its purple plumes. The laurustinus bush
Its blossoms like pale hands among the leaves
Quivered and swayed. And, Oh, the sun
That kisses her to life and warmth again
So she is young, and stretches out her arms…
The woman, huddled by the fire, restlessly stirs
Sighing a little, like a sleepy child
While the red ashes crumble into grey…

Suddenly, from the street, a burst of sound
A barrel organ, turned and jarred & wheezed
The drunken bestial, hiccoughing voice of London.English