The Widower's Window-pane

Is there a sound, as when a thrush,
On anvil stone, a snail’s shell breaks?
Is there a blown branch, by wind’s rush,
That impacts as the air it shakes?
Is there a sound, like insect caught
Between the layers of the panes?
There’s nothing there, and yet I thought
An itchy sound disturbed my brains.

An itchy sound, a skritchy sound,
As bones, poked softly through the ground.

Is there a noise, as when a hand,
Fumbles to turn an ancient latch?
Is there a hiss of falling sand,
As hourglass, or else of match
Flaring to fire, ‘gainst striking strip
With tiny sigh the flames ignite?
There’s nothing there to shake my grip,
Yet still I heard it in the night.

A widower, and writer must,
Keep mind on pen, and not on dust.

Is there a voice in fragments speaks
A polyglot of earth and sky?
Is there a bat voice heard as squeaks,
That says one long departed’s nigh?
I have no raven o’er my door,
To croak its prophesies that pain,
I never thought that nevermore,
Could be a comforting refrain.

Oh please, what e’r I prayed before
Say not, she waits beyond the door.

Is there a tune that used to pass,
Her lips, and lisp right merrily?
It cannot rise from grave-lain lass,
Such things I think but warily,
It is my mind that makes this din
This cacophony at the casement
I will not turn, nor let her in,
I suffer for my sin’s abasement.

Go back and rot, you vengeful sprite.
I killed you once, enough! Good night!!

Oh, have I woken all house and all?
Did I shout loudly in the dark?
How could you hear 'gainst the wolf's call?
You did not hear it? Listen, hark!
Yes, I confess, I’ll tell – no more,
Just take me somewhere, silent, dead,
It echoes through the walls, the floor,
The ceiling throbs above my head.

I should have known, you must have heard,
She always would have the last word.