Rattle of clematis dry as my hair,
There where June flushes and purples the window like sunset? I know
So well the room’s other corner: the hearth
Where autumn logs smoulder,
The hob,
The kettle, the crane, the cushion he put for my feet,
And my Chair—
O Chair, always mine!
Do I dare?
What—the room so the same, his and mine,