Marya Zaturensky

From “Spinners”

THE HOUSE is desolate and bare—

So long ago young Honora left

Her quiet chair!

Through the rose-bordered gardens, reft

Of all her pretty, tender care—

The silent hall, the lonely stair—

No one can see her anywhere.

Here is her shawl, her fan, her book—

She is not there.

No one remembers her bright hair,

Or how she looked, or when Death came.

Few can recall her name.

Where shall we turn to hope or look

For beauty vanished like an air?—

In what forgotten tomb or nook?