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.
