I, Wife

Not so much lost,
As all confined in silence,
Old and very christened.
And life is ordered
And night is sleeping
while I wait, a little cold
though I sit by the fire
Where my tortoise-shell cat
Keeps domesticity intact.
Remote to the wind,
As once I had listened.
Calm I sit,
Extremely collected,
Arranging time in my mind,
My vigil rehearsed and perfected.

by Elizabeth O. Slater

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