Poems (Scudder)/The Vinaigrette
THE VINAIGRETTE
When I was a child I sometimes used to steal Within the parlor, tiptoe light across The darkly shining floor To where behind the wide brocaded couch Stood a small cabinet. I loved to rub my finger on the smooth Cold glass of the doors, and peer At all the pretty things upon the shelves.
Three balls of solid crystal grasped Between the curving claws Of an ivory dragon, held the light Unchanging, purple, green and rose.
Then, on its teakwood stand A bowl of Japanese Enamel of most dainty blue. Beneath A foaming cascade overhung By trailing willows golden fishes leapt—Their burnished scales Gleamed like the smoky orange flame In a fire-opal's heart.
On either side Of such a wee chess-board inlaid With ebony and pearl, Two cupids knelt in fierce dispute; Each carved from alabaster. This I thought Most beautiful of all.
I must speak very low—There lay within its narrow case A jewelled vinaigrette. It looked so small and quaint and stiff, With its little golden head It made me think of a dead child Lying straight and still Within a coffin satin-lined.
I've heard that it belonged To a great-great-aunt of mine, Once famous for her beauty, but she died Young of a broken heart—Because she might not wed the man she loved.
—One day, I even dared To turn the golden key and thrust A bold, impious hand Within the cabinet and take The vinaigrette from out its case. I pulled the tiny stopper—lo, Such a faint, keen perfume Greeted my nostrils. 'Twas as sweet As when the brier-roses lift Their shallow chalices Of silver, of pale coral to the rain. Just a torn, trembling film of fragrance blown On soft winds of the past. Tell me—you, who believe in ghosts, Was not this a strange sort of a ghost, A sweet little ghost indeed?