Her little hot room looked over the
Through a stiff palisade of glinting palms,
And there she would lie in the heat of the day,
Her dark head resting upon her arms,
So quiet, so still, she did not
To think, to feel, or even to dream.
The shimmering, blinding web of
Hung from the sky, and the spider
With busy frightening
Crawled over the sky and spun and spun.
She could see it still when she shut her eyes,
And the little boats caught in the web like flies.
Down below at this idle
Nobody walked in the dust street;
A scent of a dying mimosa
Lay on the air, but sweet—too sweet.
