She could not remember ever being truly happy in her adult life . . .
I was rereading the first chapters to a beloved book, The Haunting of Hill House, and I came across this line. It is so poignant. The next day, I was searching for whatever song it was; in my head, I remembered the meaning, but I had forgotten the source. I kept trying to figure out what the lyrics were, what song had so beautifully captured the tragedy of life . . .
I felt a little silly when I realized it wasn’t poetry but prose.
Then it came into my head that it should be poetry.
Despair Unloved, the spinster sits within the window's light, some half forgotten work beside her stool, and from that empty, barren room she trains her sight upon a dying garden and a pool. No word is on her lips, nor moves her tongue in speech; it's but her trembling chin which we see move. Though summer's here, the fruitless garden's far from reach, and there's no voice to scorn nor to approve. Transfixed within that scanty portal's fading beam —around her floats the dust—all things are dust— her breath escapes her in one silent, mournful scream which gives no birth to sound, nor love, nor lust. She's hurt by memories, by days of school long past, those sweet and broken promises inured her to this dreadful want and hopeless life, and passed this life some unmarked death—promise assured. In this cruel life she'd not recall another joy save for what made her stomach turn inside to here recount. The garden's dead, and there's no koi within the pool—despair none can abide.
Tale Told 