The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun, <br /> The crisping steam of a train <br />Melts in the air, while two black birds <br /> Sweep past the window again. <br /> <br />Along the vacant road, a red <br /> Bicycle approaches; I wait <br />In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy <br /> To leap down at our gate. <br /> <br />He has passed us by; but is it <br /> Relief that starts in my breast? <br />Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still <br /> She has no rest.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anxiety-2/
