In her room at the prow of the house br Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, br My daughter is writing a story. br br I pause in the stairwell, hearing br From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys br Like a chain hauled over a gunwale. br br Young as she is, the stuff br Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy: br I wish her a lucky passage. br br But now it is she who pauses, br As if to reject my thought and its easy figure. br A stillness greatens, in which br br The whole house seems to be thinking, br And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor br Of strokes, and again is silent. br br I remember the dazed starling br Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago; br How we stole in, lifted a sash br br And retreated, not to affright it; br And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door, br We watched the sleek, wild, dark br br And iridescent creature br Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove br To the hard floor, or the desk-top, br br And wait then, humped and bloody, br For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits br Rose when, suddenly sure, br br It lifted off from a chair-back, br Beating a smooth course for the right window br And clearing the sill of the world. br br It is always a matter, my darling, br Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish br What I wished you before, but harder.