My father's lips as if speaking someone's blessing,
His eyes turned to the hard green west and lost;
He lifts the corpse-cold curtain at the window
To let his fingers brush away the frost.
Two stars, two needles stuck dead in the sky;
And the frog-rumpled marsh in silvery gray.
O let us keep the weekday cloth off the table!
Let a keepsake of the Sabbath stay.