Again I hear her speak and back,
Where steals the showery sunlight, piles
A whatnot dainty bric-a-brac
Beside a tall clock; each glazed tile's
Blue-patterned profile smiles.
I hear her say, "Ah, had we known,
Could what has been have ever been?—
And now!"... How hurt the hard ache shone
In eyes whose sadness seemed to lean
On something far, unseen!
And as in sleep my own self seems
Outside my suffering self: I flush
In mists of undetermined dreams;
Behold her musing in that hush
Of lilac light and plush.
Smiling but tortured. Yes, I feel
Despite that face, not seeming sad,
In those calm temples thoughts like steel
Remorseless bore. I had gone mad
Had I once deemed her glad.
Unconsciously, with eyes that yearn
To pierce beyond the present far,
Searching some future hope, I turn;—
There in her garden one fierce star,
Beyond the window's bar,—
Vermilion as a storm-sunk sun,—
A phyllocactus?—all the life
Of torrid middays in but one
Rich crimson bloom—flames red as strife;
And near it, rankly rife—
Deep coreopsis?—heavy hues
Of soft seal-bronze and satiny gold,
Sway girandoles whose jets of dews
Burn points of starlight diamond-cold,
Warm-colored, manifold.
She dare not speak; I can not. Yet
An intercourse 'twixt brain and brain
Goes feverish on.—Crushed, smelling wet,
Through silken curtains drift again
Verbena-scents of rain.
I in the doorway turn and stay;
Angry her cameo beauty mark
Set in that smile—Oh! will she say
No farewell? no regret? one spark
Of hope to cheer the dark?
That sepia-sketch—conceive it so—
A roguish head with jaunty eyes
Laughing beneath a rose-chapeau,
Silk-masked, unmasking—it denies
The full-faced flower surprise;