Richard Wilbur

  • Mar. 2nd, 2012 at 12:43 AM
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In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,   
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys   
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:   
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.   
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking )

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