Not illness but her own intent Had brought remoteness to her eye, The look of one who freely went Half way to die. For as the locust lives and plans To leave his house and be away, So is she one who closely scans Dividing lines in clay. She is not braided in the flesh, Nor neatly woven to the bone, But ever tries the weakening mesh, Foretastes oblivion. There is strange violence stirring where, Containing life and death, she waits; Not without passion does she dare To borrow what she hates. |