All their faces are exhausted, lined
With soft concern. They whisper if they speak.
You'd almost think that they were all resigned
To something horrible - but then they'll sneak
A grin or sudden glance of warmth, and show
That underneath the seeming sullen gloom
There's still a spark of life. Since this is so
The quiet stillness hanging in the room
Seems strange, and almost acts as if it were
A separate creature from the people there.
Like them, it will not raise itself or stir,
And yet it lacks the other thing they share,
The possibility of changing. They
Won't always be as dour as today.
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