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...NATIONALITY by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS SPELT FROM SIBYL'S LEAVES by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS A DIRGE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE WOUND-DRESSER by WALT WHITMAN THE TOUCHSTONE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE LITTLE KNIGHT IN GREEN by KATHARINE LEE BATES MARCH: A BULL ON THE HORIZON by A. G. BECKMANN |