While Lounging In A Chair

While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling Where, teasing my imagination, A circle hangs above the quiet lamp, And spins just like a ghostly shadow. Within the flicker there's a trace of autumn sunset: As if, above the rooftop and the garden, Unable to fly off, afraid to land, Dark flocks of blackbirds circle. . . No, it's not wings I hear, but hooves at the front gate! I hear the trembling hands . . . How chill the pallor of a lovely face! How bitter parting's whisper! . . Lost and in silence, I survey the distant road Beyond the dimming garden,- While the impatient flock of blackbirds, Unsheltered, circles still.