And still he could refuse her.
So September,
With speckles on its back, slid like a serpent
Over the cool slopes; and lucky houses,
Filled with a winter’s wood, sat where they were,
Complacent; while upon the homeless highways
Wanderers appeared.
So Dora’s time
Came slowly, slowly on, with few to know
Or care when it should come; except Darius,