Edith Mirick

Closed Doors

Oh, I am weary of beating endlessly
Upon closed doors that mock
Bruised, desperate hands ... I am weary
Of fumbling at an old, time-rusted lock
Fast again bleeding fingers.  I would find
A door that looks upon some crest, some still
And shadowed valley.  Ah, I would not care how dark
The shadows lay ... how inaccessible the hill.