“Yes,” he continued, “I am regular poor,
Poor as a busted Indian, and of course
It follows in the logic of our life
That I must give you up. I cannot ask
One in the golden glory of events
To come and share a fate which runs upon
A thousand annual dollars. Ne’er a case.
While in Night’s cushion stars like pin-heads shine.”
She looked at him with an incarnadine,
Rich, passionate, scarlet-sanguine crimson flush