The long small room that showed willows in the west 
Narrowed up to the end the fireplace filled, 
Although not wide. I liked it. No one guessed 
What need or accident made them so build. 

Only the moon, the mouse and the sparrow peeped 
In from the ivy round the casement thick. 
Of all they saw and heard there they shall keep 
The tale for the old ivy and older brick. 

When I look back I am like moon, sparrow and mouse 
That witnessed what they could never understand 
Or alter or prevent in the dark house. 
One thing remains the same — this my right hand 

Crawling crab-like over the clean white page, 
Resting awhile each morning on the pillow, 
Then once more starting to crawl on towards age. 
The hundred last leaves stream upon the willow.