I seem to hear her speak and see That blue-hung room. Her perfume comes From lavender folds vined dreamily-- A-blossom with brocaded blooms,-- A stuff of Orient looms.
Again I hear her speak and back, Where steals the showery sunlight, piles A whatnot dainty bric-a-brac Beside a tall clock; each glazed tile's Blue-patterned profile smiles.
I hear her say, "Ah, had we known, Could what has been have ever been?-- And now!"... How hurt the hard ache shone In eyes whose sadness seemed to lean On something far, unseen!
And as in sleep my own self seems Outside my suffering self: I flush In mists of undetermined dreams; Behold her musing in that hush Of lilac light and plush.
Smiling but tortured. Yes, I feel Despite that face, not seeming sad, In those calm temples thoughts like steel Remorseless bore. I had gone mad Had I once deemed her glad.
Unconsciously, with eyes that yearn To pierce beyond the present far, Searching some future hope, I turn;-- There in her garden one fierce star, Beyond the window's bar,--
Vermilion as a storm-sunk sun,-- A phyllocactus?--all the life Of torrid middays in but one Rich crimson bloom--flames red as strife; And near it, rankly rife--
Deep coreopsis?--heavy hues Of soft seal-bronze and satiny gold, Sway girandoles whose jets of dews Burn points of starlight diamond-cold, Warm-colored, manifold.
She dare not speak; I can not. Yet An intercourse 'twixt brain and brain Goes feverish on.--Crushed, smelling wet, Through silken curtains drift again Verbena-scents of rain.
I in the doorway turn and stay; Angry her cameo beauty mark Set in that smile--Oh! will she say No farewell? no regret? one spark Of hope to cheer the dark?
That sepia-sketch--conceive it so-- A roguish head with jaunty eyes Laughing beneath a rose-chapeau, Silk-masked, unmasking--it denies The full-faced flower surprise;
Hung o'er her davenport.... We read The true beneath the false; perceive The smile that hides the ache.--Indeed! _Whose_ soul unmasks?... not mine!--I grieve Here, here, but laugh and leave....
Beyond the knotty apple-trees That fade about the old brick-barn, Its tattered arms and tattered knees A scare-crow tosses to the breeze Among the shocks of corn.
All things grow gray in earth and sky; The cold wind sounding drearily Makes all the rusty branches fly; The rustling leaves a-rotting lie; The year is waning wearily.