The lover’s death, how regular
With lifting spring and starker
Vestiges of the sun that somehow
Filter in to us before we waken.
Not yet is there that heat and sober
Vivisection of more clamant air
That hands joined in the dark will answer
After the daily circuits of its glare.
It is the time of sundering ...
Beneath the green silk counterpane
Her mound of undelivered life
Lies cool upon her--not yet pain.
And she will wake before you pass,
Scarcely aloud, beyond her door,
And every third step down the stair
Until you reach the muffled floor--
Will laugh and call your name; while you
Still answering her faint good-byes,
Will find the street, only to look
At doors and stone with broken eyes.
Walk now, and note the lover’s death.
Henceforth her memory is more
Than yours, in cries, in ecstasies
You cannot ever reach to share.