The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house, <br />Are rusty and broken. <br />Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees, <br />The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes <br />Sweep against the stars. <br />And I sit under a lamp <br />Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart. <br />Even the cat will not stay with me, <br />But prefers the rain <br />Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.<br /><br />Amy Lowell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/november-31/
