And I could see how brittle was his skin
Like crust of bread too long in oven dried.
We had been talking as two strangers will
At times. But just then something I had said
Had seemed to shake him like a fever-chill
The way he shook, the way his face went red.
As I sat wondering why he let me see
This grief or shame which smote him to the core,
He slowly fluttered, took the wine from me,
Poured twice and drank; then filled his glass once more,