It is not until reaching the final poem, “Envoi,” that the poet indicates that anything has actually occurred outside of her haunted imagination. The catkin from the hazel swung When you and I and March were young ... The harvest moon rose round and red When habit came and wonder fled ... Snow lay on hedgerows of December Then, when we could no more remember. But the green flush was on the larch When other loves we found in March.[68] Here, for a moment, is the flavor of Millay, but not the intensity, and to give evidence that the whole volume breathes subjective passion one would need to quote it entirely, which is scarcely practicable. The most vivid of the poems is also one of the best known: Cygnet and barnacle goose Follow her when she passes Barefoot through daisied grasses. Briars blown straying and loose Catch at her as she goes Down the path between woodbine and rose. Seeking to follow and hold her, The silly birds and the thorn. But her laughter is merry with scorn. What would she say if I told her That the goose, and the swan, And the thorn, and my spirit, were one?[69] A negative note, barely audible, is sounded in the _Scrapbook_ of Katherine Mansfield, published by her husband, Middleton Murry, in 1940, a dozen years after her death. The poem is dated 1919, and entitled “Friendship.” When we were charming Backfisch With curls and velvet bows We shared a charming kitten With tiny velvet toes. It was so gay and playful; It flew like a woolly ball From my lap to your shoulder— And oh, it was so small, So warm and so obedient, If we cried: “That’s enough!” It lay and slept between us, A purring ball of fluff. But now that I am thirty And she is thirty-one, I shudder to discover How wild our cat has run. It’s bigger than a tiger, Its eyes are jets of flame, Its claws are gleaming daggers; Could it have once been tame? Take it away; I’m frightened! But she, with placid brow, Cries: “This is our Kitty-witty! Why don’t you love her now?”[70] Obviously Mansfield, unlike Millay, did not see perfection in the fulfillment of variant love. Or at least not in this particular fulfillment. Passages scattered through the _Scrapbook_ and the more reticent _Journal_ (1928) reveal a compulsive and abject devotion in the lifelong friend alluded to in the poem above. (See, for example, “Toothache Sunday” in the _Scrapbook_.) The intensity of her friend’s emotion troubled Mansfield, who sometimes felt herself “a callous brute” to be unable to return it in kind or to make its possessor happy. “I don’t know why I always shrink ever so faintly from her touch. I could not kiss her lips.”[71] But, however innocent of expression, the relationship was a problem she could never discuss with her husband, and she felt that it cast a permanent, if faint, shadow between her and “J.” (Murry).