Evenings they sat, each in an accustomed chair,
He read, she mended …
The while a clock ticked off the hours to ten,
And so each evening ended.
Through dull days, each identical, that stretched
Into the years, love had become a thing
Of mutual habit tied to a hearth;
A bird with a clipped wing,
That, sired for heaven, sought no more to fly
On crippled pinions, to forgotten sky.
(Edith Mirick)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Heaven Poems, Birds PoemsBased on Keywords: ticked, identical, sired