Spinster

As one who does not show

Her mortal sickness

Spits unseen blood on snow,

She drops a crimson word

On frozen speech, instantly blurred

By her drab usual phrase.

They say, "How colorlessly cold her ways!"

Sometimes her apathetic eyes

Are lightning-struck by pain:

Never a thunder-clap; no rain-

A wounded doe that cries

With a look. No more:

Her eyes are as before.

Her habit so precise!

"Easy to grasp her style,"

They say, "or make a nice

Sketch of her." Meanwhile,

Firm surfaces apart,

Crumbles her acid-bitten heart.

When dead, her face will hide

Pain's mordant sketch below.

Mannerly she'll go;

Nothing revealed beside

Her name, her birthday and the day she died.