His lady thinks herself enchanted
He comes to her somber door
Which she will only whisper through
He prints his lips upon the wood
As he hears her pencil burning words
So haunted is his lady
Through their dark house she fumbles
Laced with white as some ghost
Murmurs come feverish from her lips
As she dreams of words to stain the paper
She fears the morning that will come,
that will disturb the stillness of the house
The night is her shroud of safeness
And outside this house they wonder
Will she waste forever here?
This strange lady dressed in ivory
Who refuses the comfort of guests and air
She curls into her loneliness
It is something to be nurtured
She finds it lovelier there
For the silence gives her beauty