So quiet in this room.

Singing Sunday birds outside pierce the inner gloom.

Nothing else is heard and no-one enters here.

I sit amongst my books

and all that’s gone, once so dear,

expressing tenderness with looks,

won’t be coming back this side of heavens sleep.

What treasures should I keep?

What blessings do I lack?

I still live and breathe.

In this empty room my thoughts are coming clear.