Many years later, he had indeed died in the room, thereby fulfilling its destiny. Unused unless by some guest in a twelvemonth, who hardly suspectsĪ chill rippled across my skin as I realized that we were standing in that very room and the bed before me was the subject of the poem-the death-bed in “The Bed by the Window.” Robinson Jeffers had written the poem as a young man shortly after building the house. When we built the house it is ready waiting, I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed But it was the west-facing windows, unusually close to the floor, that caught my attention and brought back the words. As we walked into the room, I first noticed the bed-broad, slightly concave, uncomfortable-looking-covered with a thin, antique quilt.
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