HE is dead. Men wonder that I am not desolate. When I smile, they think me brave or a hypocrite. I am neither. Every night he is mine. In the land where death and life mingle He is once more with me. In the cottage at the foot of the tall bamboo Where first our love-dream was. His arms, white as paper from the mulberry bark, Caress me. But now he is all mine. I share him with neither man nor woman. And men wonder why I am not desolate. I smile, and they think me brave—or a hypocrite. |