She is a shadow there. She is a nun
Without the grave sophistry of a rood.
Day beds with day, week beds with week, and one
By one the years go. One by one. Her food
A dark and ancient stairway going up
To an ancient room and an ancient bed.
Daily she takes communion from the cup
Kissed by the first hands laying out their dead.
No more than shadow in a weathered house,
Part of a wall, a shelf, part of a floor—
So silent there the smallest waiting mouse
Tires of listening at the cupboard door;
And kisses given her will come as rain
Given to soil no man shall reap again.