She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
| And I will show you something different from either | |
| Your shadow at morning striding behind you | |
| Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; | |
| I will show you fear in a handful of dust. |
| 'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. | |
| 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. | |
| 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? | |
| 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.' |
| He who was living is now dead | |
| We who were living are now dying | |
With a little patience
|
| The awful daring of a moment's surrender |
| Which an age of prudence can never retract |
| By this, and this only, we have existed |
| Which is not to be found in our obituaries |
