Part 6 (1/2)

Powder Room

At every little crystal square Grave women creatures sit and stare At what the day has done to mar Frail personal beauty; puff and jar And lip rouge tubes are taken out To dye each thoughtful waiting pout; No hurried smear . . . a careful rite Then infinite scansion in the light.

The final look, The little smile Triumphant . . . careful . . . full of guile Absorbed completely in her task Each ”Eve” adjusts her powdered mask!

Bend Your Head

Bend your head and kiss my hand And tell me tales of Samarkand.

Weave a web of lovely words That I may count like singing birds That I may set upon my sill When you have left me . . . As you will!

Promise

I shall not weep when you go But don a scarlet dress And I shall sing a gay song And you shall never guess.

And I shall dance when you go With other eager men And make my heart forget you . . .

And you shall want me, then!

Remnant

You promised me Fidelity.

I got a ring - I got a vow - And now . . .

I got a ring!

Aware

I hope I never quite get over The smell of rainy summer clover; Or how a willow tree at night Can make a silver sort of light; Or how a child with lifted face Can make a holy sort of place!

Out of Loneliness ...

Out of a loneliness more deep Than quiet death.

Out of a sleep As cold as ice . . . more drear, more chill I hunger up toward dreaming; Fill my hands with flowers, Tread a measure against bright candles, Bare my throat to Autumn moonlight Cry to the stars that love rides by Against whatever midnight sky!

Chalk Talk

Sometimes I tell myself ”Chumley! It's about time you acquired a little dignity.

Not much.