Oh, think, when he came
And sank in the other chair, facing me,
Not a line of his face would alter,
Nor his hands fall like sun on my hair,
Nor the old dog jump on me, grinning
Yet cringing, because she half-knew
I’d found out the hole in my border,
And why my tallest auratum was dead—
But his face would be there, unseeing,
His eyes look through me;