and the yellow pleasure of candle-light….
old brown books and the kind, fine face of the clock
fogged in the veils of the fire – it’s cuddling tock.
greening her eyes on the flame-litten mat;
wickedly, wakeful she yawns at the rain
bending the roses over the pane,
and a bird in my heart begins to sing
over and over the same sweet thing–
Safe in the house with my boyhood’s love
and our children asleep in the attic above.