The poem
The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun, The crisping steam of a train Melts in the air, while two black birds Sweep past the window again.
Along the vacant road, a red Bicycle approaches; I wait In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy To leap down at our gate.
He has passed us by; but is it Relief that starts in my breast? Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still She has no rest.