POETRY.
YOUNG GIRL AT A WINDOW
Lift your hand to the window latch:
More than mortal swords are crossed
On thresholds at the end of day;
The fading air is stained with red
Since Time was killed and now lies dead.
Or Time was lost. But someone saw
Though nobody spoke and nobody will,
While in the clock against the wall
The guiltless minute hand is still:
The watchful room, the breathless light
Be hosts to you this final night.
Over the gently-turning hills
Travel a journey with your eyes
In forward footsteps, chance assault—
This way the map of living lies.
And this the journey you must go
Through grass and sheaves and, lastly, snow.
by Rosemary Dobson
