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Poem	A page of the ‘Kelmscott’ Chaucer Seen through out cottage window When the Pennines were blind with snow Flurrying round the stones. The fire was low when I began to blow That single flicker to a flame, Was I too late, I wondered, the ‘poet in name’ Whose mind runs endlessly As fingers through an old man’s hair? (Either way I thought of you and your being there) A portrait by Velasquez Seen through the months of silence, vivid As the door I painted scarlet for our love When the wind joined us walking the moors; The sculpture of Brancusi’s Sleeping Muse Seen against the sadness is more eloquent Than the sun: there is something I would waken Other than that ageless sleeper, if I dare, (The way I dream of you and our being there)
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