my window-pane is starred with frost,
the world is bitter cold to-night,
the moon is cruel, and the wind
is like two-edged sword to smite.
God pity all the homeless ones,
the beggars pacing to and fro,
God pity all the poor to-night
who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.
my room is a bit of June,
warm and close-curtained fold on fold,
but somewhere, like a homeless child,
my heart is crying in the cold.
another favourite piece of mine.it's been long and long since i last wrote anything...
the poet is one who is able to keep the fresh vision of the child alive--anais nin
