Amy Lowell

The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house,

Are rusty and broken.

Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees,

The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes

Sweep against the stars.

And I sit under a lamp

Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart.

Even the cat will not stay with me,

But prefers the rain

Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.

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