Here was the door where the day walked in,
The floor feet made thin.
Why was the window cold with the full scene it shone?
When, at long last, did the thumb
Unmark the glass?
And when did the eye find a changeful slant of song,
Singing through the slant
Of new weather, tugging at the bedclothes,
Fixed in the blue fixture
The chimney; this scoop of land
Stooping out of its claim?