The Earth Turns South/Her Room
HER ROOM
She is away, but everywhere I lookHer traces linger;The casual piling there of book on book,With careful finger;
The marshaled flower-pots that blurred and changedThe view of the alley;The picture righted, cushions disarrangedArtistically;
My careless pipes and ash-trays whipped into line,Painfully dusted;A handkerchief—its scent sways me like wine;A hat-pin rusted,
A dozen vagrant hair-pins, and a veilSprinkling the table;A crumpled ribbon, eager to tell its tale—Would it were able!
And always a vague something in the air,A keen reminderOf her dear intimate self, that everywhereBids me go find her. . . .
She is away, but her room throbs and teemsIn incompleteness,Flooding me with intense, imperative dreamsOf her full sweetness.