What pain this is, I think I know,
It stoops to pass the threshold low,
And stops to give it's rain-slicked head a shake,
As if to light his eyes and mind awake.

And settling in beside the fire,
He turns a spell to stoke my ire,
While I, my strong foundations rooted
Am powerless - my fire muted.

And like old friends - sifts through all my things,
Only to take those which most pleasure brings,
Then stops perchance to hold my love aloft,
Then gone and trampled underfoot - a cough.

The angels of my better nature cower,
Below bed-springs and last summer's lost flowers,
Patience and good nature are most still,
Until grief and heartache both have had their fill.