Henslowe. There was a bush of lavender, And roses, and a bee in every rose, Drowning the lark that fluted, fields away, Up in the marvel blue.
Shakespeare. Did you go in?
Henslowe. Why, scarce I dared, for as I latched the gate The wind stirred drowsily, and “Hush!” it said, And slept again; but all the garden waked Upon the sound. I swear, as I play Prologue, It watched me, waiting. Down the path I crept, Tip-toe, and reached the window, and looked in.
Shakespeare. You saw—?
Henslowe. I saw her; though the place was gloom After the sunshine; but I saw her—
Shakespeare. Changed?
Henslowe. I knew her.
Shakespeare. Who was with her?
Henslowe. She was alone, Beside the hearth unkindled, sitting alone. A child’s chair was beside her, but no child. Her hands were sleepless, and beneath her breath She tuned a thread of song—your song of ‘Willow.’ But when I tapped upon the window-pane, Oh, how she turned, and how leaped up! Her face Glowed white as iron new lifted from the forge: Her hair fled out behind her in one flame As to the door she ran, with little cries Scarce human, tearing at the bolt, the key, And flung it crashing back: ran out, wide-armed, Calling your name: then—saw me, and stood still, So still you’d think she died there, standing up, As a sapling will in frost, so desolate She stood, with summer round her, staring—
Shakespeare. Well?