White Heliotrope

The feverish room and that white bed,

The tumbled skirts upon a chair,

The novel flung half-open,

Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints are spread;

The mirror that has sucked your

Into its secret deep of deeps,

And there mysteriously

Forgotten memories of grace;

And you half dressed and half awake,

Your slant eyes strangely watching me,

And I, who watch you drowsily,

With eyes that, having slept not, ache;

This (need one dread? nay, dare one hope?)Will rise, a ghost of memory,

Ever again my

Is scented with White Heliotrope.