The Writer

    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，

    And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

    Of strokes， and again is silent.

    I remember the dazed starling

    Which was trapped in that very room， two years ago；

    How we stole in， lifted a sash

    And retreated， not to affright it；

    And how for a helpless hour， through the crack of the door，

    We watched the sleek， wild， dark

    And iridescent creature

    Batter against the brilliance， drop like a glove

    To the hard floor， or the desk-top，

    And wait then， humped and bloody，

    For the wits to try it again； and how our spirits

    Rose when， suddenly sure，

    It lifted off from a chair-back，

    Beating a smooth course for the right window

    And clearing the sill of the world.

    It is always a matter， my darling，

    Of life or death， as I had forgotten.  I wish

    What I wished you before， but harder.