Ninety-Four

Ninety-four remains a little lonely,
Incarcerated in her single room.
Now quieted, now full of empty yearning,
Each aged organ still with passion burning,
To her betimes the body seems a tomb.
Yet life itself is no less lithe and comely.

Friends and loves long past live in her only,
Open as a garden in full bloom.
Upon her, then, a world of wonder turning
Rides undaunted into gathering gloom.