Henslowe. Why not say—
Shakespeare. I say, did you pass my house?
Henslowe. I had forgot the way.
Shakespeare. As I have, Henslowe!
Henslowe. Should I have sought her?
Shakespeare. No.
Henslowe. Yet I did see her. Making for London, not a week ago, Alone on horseback, sudden the long grey road Grew friendly, like a stranger in a dream Nodding “I know you!” and behold, a love Long dead, that smiles and says, “I never died!” Then in the turn of the lane I saw your thatch. Summer not winter, else was all unchanged. Still in the dream I left my horse to graze, And let ten years slip from me at your gate.
Shakespeare. Is it ten years?
Henslowe. The little garden lay Enchanted in the Sunday sloth of noon: In th’ aspen tree the wind hung, fast asleep, Yet the air danced a foot above the flowers And gnats danced in it. I saw a poppy-head Spilling great petals, noiseless, one by one: I heard the honeysuckle breathe—sweet, sweet: The briar was sweeter—a long hedge, pink-starred—
Shakespeare. I know.