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Sunday, February 13, 2005
from Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman
William Wordsworth
My fire is dead - it knew no pain;
Yet it is dead, and I remain.
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.
When I was well I wished to live,
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie -
Alone I cannot fear to die.
posted by gbarto at 10:58 PM
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