A dozen times she washed her hands And moved, frail-pink, across the hall, And sat combing her pale-gold hair, And sat staring against the wall. Outside the sea would roar its blue Against the plumeless white of her. Along the sill a tawny cat Would lie, and daintily stretch and purr. Her eyes were green as icebergs are. Carved she was of a marble shaft; Pearly she was, with the luster gone. She combed her hair, and she was daft. And when her sister's child came home, Crying out beyond the stair, A look came on of a wild-cat thing Brought to bay in a jungle lair. A jade-green box, milky with light, She loved to hold. A day she sits, The child laughs out, she gets her up And hurls it, and laughs at the sorry bits. The child not hers; the box a well Of the empty loves and the clapperless bell; And of what sad reckoning she was born Only a father and mother can tell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG FIRST BY A SHEPHERD by WILLIAM BLAKE EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS [OR VILLERS] (2) by THOMAS CAREW HOW'S MY BOY? by SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL TRUST IN GOD by NORMAN MACLEOD (1812-1872) TO THE ROYAL ACADEMY by WILLIAM BLAKE TAKE YOUR CHOICE: AS EDGAR LEE MASTERS WOULD HANDLE IT. HILDA HYDE by BERTON BRALEY THE WEEPING SAVIOUR, HYMN 3 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |