Another old poem from "Way Stations" (untitled):

In a rough-hewn four-poster
the moody Puritan sleeps.
Down the steep dark stair,
slowly, a poor wife creeps.

Under a heavy kitchen box
there's a crust of dry bread;
strong hands undo the locks;
she goes out by the shed.

The old redhead dreams on,
kindly dawn slowly rises -
he sees a fatherly sun,
gleaming strawberry ices,

and a justified Rome -
while his wife, thinly wan,
espousing dear freedom,
succors an orphan swan.

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