Counterpanes

I will make myself new thought; My own is worn and old. And old counterpanes will not Keep out the wind and cold.

From borrowed thought I will choose Pieces, and, row on row, Patch a quilt of many hues Like the quilts of long ago.

It cannot be so fine As what the years have thinned. But I dread the smothered whine Of four grey walls' grey wind.

I will patch me a counterpane. For mine is worn to scars. And I fear the iron rain Of a ceiling's splashing stars.