Lizette Woodworth Reese (January 9, 1856 – December 17, 1935 / Waverly)
In Time Of Grief
Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone,
The box dripped in the air;
Its odor through my house was blown
Into the chamber there.
Remote and yet distinct the scent,
The sole thing of the kind,
As though one spoke a word half meant
That left a sting behind.
I knew not Grief would go from me,
And naught of it be plain,
Except how keen the box can be
After a fall of rain.
Comments about this poem (In Time Of Grief by Lizette Woodworth Reese )
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