February, When The Days Of Winter Seem

Hill House, She Thought, You're As Hard To Get Into As Heaven.

I Remember That I Stood On The Library Steps Holding My Books And Looking For A Minute At The Soft Hinted Green In The Branches Against The Sky And Wishing, As I Always Did, That I Could Walk Home Across The Sky Instead Of Through The Village.

I Was Pretending That I Did Not Speak Their Language; On The Moon We Spoke A Soft, Liquid Tongue, And Sang In The Starlight, Looking Down On The Dead Dried World.

A Pretty Sight, A Lady With A Book.

I'm Going To Put Death In All Their Food And Watch Them Die.