A rusted loop of copper and of bone,
It fits no lock within a wooden door;
But turns within the silence of the stone,
To find the halls that do not exist no more.
The traveler twists the handle to the left,
And smells the roses of a summer past;
Of every joy of which he was bereft,
And every shadow that the morning cast.
He walks through rooms of sunlight and of gold,
To touch the hands of those he used to know;
Before the world grew bitter and so cold,
And covered all the garden in the snow.
The iron snaps within the frozen lock,
To leave him stranded on a barren rock.
To keep this original world expanding:
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