On the table, her fingers' endless drumming
Exposed her eagerness unto the birds.
She knew always there was no one coming.

Her feet made such a quiet stepping
While through the house she prepared her words--
On the stair, her feet endlessly drumming.

Near depraved was her anxious preparing
And through empty rooms her echoes were heard
Though she knew always there was no one coming.

Your guests won't love you, screamed her reasoning,
If there is seen in the hall a speck of dirt
Or beneath her nails, endlessly drumming.

Just as no one visits the widow, with her mourning,
There is no one to calm the cawing of the birds
In her breast; she knows there is no one coming.

The house is quiet, quiet this evening,
Its frame and hers, together, bare steel girds.
On the table, her fingers cease their drumming;
She knew always there was no one coming.