THE TAFFETAS CLOAK
A taffetas cloak on an old peg hangs,
Cowslip-coloured as dairy cream,
Yet it seems to me as a body swinging
To and fro from an oaken beam;
Such sombre secrets a touch awoke
In the dust that came from a woman's cloak.
Cowslip-coloured as dairy cream,
Yet it seems to me as a body swinging
To and fro from an oaken beam;
Such sombre secrets a touch awoke
In the dust that came from a woman's cloak.
A finger of light has found the attic;
It moves, to point like a seeking sword
Where a rose of silk at the throat is fastened,
Looped across with a satin cord,
And passes down to a clasp of paste
That played the shield to a rounded waist.
It moves, to point like a seeking sword
Where a rose of silk at the throat is fastened,
Looped across with a satin cord,
And passes down to a clasp of paste
That played the shield to a rounded waist.
There's a tiny stain on one shimmering shoulder,
Brown as the leaf of a summer fled—
Was it ever vivid, and wet, and spreading,
Red on the cloak as a bloom is red?
Was it ruddy wine when the Mad Hours ride,
Or the point of a rapier turned aside?
Brown as the leaf of a summer fled—
Was it ever vivid, and wet, and spreading,
Red on the cloak as a bloom is red?
Was it ruddy wine when the Mad Hours ride,
Or the point of a rapier turned aside?
In the taffetas cloak a spider crouches:
I saw the twitch of his hairy legs,
And he seemed as the soul of a long-dead woman
That out of the grave-clothes creeps, and begs
That the taffetas cloak be left to hide
The price she paid for her laughing pride!
I saw the twitch of his hairy legs,
And he seemed as the soul of a long-dead woman
That out of the grave-clothes creeps, and begs
That the taffetas cloak be left to hide
The price she paid for her laughing pride!
