The feverish room and that white bed, The tumbled skirts upon a chair, The novel flung half-open, where Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints, are spread; The mirror that has sucked your face Into its secret deep of deeps, And there mysteriously keeps Forgotten memories of grace; And you, half dressed and half awake, Your slant eyes strangely watching me, And I, who watch you drowsily, With eyes that, having slept not, ache; This (need one dread? nay, dare one hope?) Will rise, a ghost of memory, if Ever again my handkerchief Is scented with White Heliotrope. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO R.K. by JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN THE LAST MAN by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES FALSORUM DEORUM CULTOR by WILLIAM ROSE BENET VICTORIAN LADIES by MILDRED HATTON BRYAN AS TO MOONLIGHT by WITTER BYNNER |