The cubbyhole I lie in is a box Of candied orange-peel. Soiled by hotel rooms till I reach the morgue That's not for me, I feel. Out of pure superstition I have come And settled here once more. The wallpaper is brown as any oak, And there's a singing door. I kept one hand upon the latch, you tried To fight free of the nets, And forelock touched enchanted forelock, and Then lips touched violets. O softy, in the name of times long gone, You play the old encore: Your costume like a primrose chirps "hello" To April as before. It's wrong to think-you are no Vestal: you Brought in a chair one day, Stood on it, took my life down from the shelf And blew the dust away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAPPHIC SUICIDE NOTE by JAMES GALVIN MATER AMABILIS by EMMA LAZARUS APPELLATE JURISDICTION by MARIANNE MOORE |