Mildred Plew Merryman

IN that rich room it is not dusk, not day.

A few late sunbeams fall like silver rain

And pool themselves upon the counterpane;

She does not notice when they move and stray.

So peacefully she lies! Her fingers fray

The covering beneath, but in her brain

She feels no knotting of the silken skein—

So softly does life wind itself away.

While others, restless, mark the hours’ slow ebb,

And stop the tinkling bell, the clicking gate;

Or trembling turn to listen, whisper, wait—

While Death, the spider, weaves its gauzy web—

There placidly she lies beneath its loom,

Planning new curtains for the living-room.