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POETRY.


YOUNG GIRL AT A WINDOW



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







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POETRY.

POETRY.

POETRY.

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