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. . . .
40
