Poem Hunter
FEW (1875 - 1948 / Scotland)


Poem By Francis Ernley Walrond

The gray of the morning
Creeps in the room like fear.
It is growing lighter,
But I sit crouched and shivering.

I dare not look at the bed,
Lest I laugh --
Or curse God.

How does it happen?
Yesterday my wife,
And now -- a strange thing --
Anything -- nothing.
A body without breath,
Arms without warmth,
Lips without kisses.

'Eve' was her name,
And the strangest part is
That I want to call -- 'Eve,
Come and look at this thing
That lies on your bed
And looks so like you.'

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