Oh, I am weary of beating endlessly
Upon closed doors that mock
Bruised, desperate hands … I am weary
Of fumbling at an old, time-rusted lock
Fast again bleeding fingers. I would find
A door that looks upon some crest, some still
And shadowed valley. Ah, I would not care how dark
The shadows lay … how inaccessible the hill.
(Edith Mirick)
More Poetry from Edith Mirick:
- Fairy Tales (Edith Mirick Poems)
- En Tour (Edith Mirick Poems)
- Black Sheep (Edith Mirick Poems)
- Brothers (Edith Mirick Poems)
- Dearth (Edith Mirick Poems)
- Old Houses (Edith Mirick Poems)