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