Your face is like a chamber where a king Dies of his wounds, untended and alone, Stifling with courteous gesture the crude moan That speaks too loud of mortal perishing, Rising on elbow in the dark to sing Some rhyme now out of season but well known In days when banners in his face were blown And every woman had a rose to fling. I know that through your eyes which look on me Who stand regarding you with pitiful breath, You see beyond the moment’s pause, you see The sunny sky, the skimming bird beneath, And, fronting on your windows hopelessly, Black in the noon, the broad estates of Death. IV-XV THE LIGHT COMES BACK The light comes back with Columbine; she brings A touch of this, a little touch of that, Coloured confetti, and a favour hat, Patches, and powder, dolls that work by strings And moons that work by switches, all the things That please a sick man’s fancy, and a flat Spry convalescent kiss, and a small pat Upon the pillow,--paper offerings. The light goes out with her; the shadows sprawl. Where she has left her fragrance like a shawl I lie alone and pluck the counterpane, Or on a dizzy elbow rise and hark-- And down like dominoes along the dark Her little silly laughter spills again! IV-XVI LORD ARCHER, DEATH Lord Archer, Death, whom sent you in your stead? What faltering prentice fumbled at your bow, That now should wander with the insanguine dead In whom forever the bright blood must flow? Or is it rather that impairing Time Renders yourself so random, or so dim? Or are you sick of shadows and would climb A while to light, a while detaining him? For know, this was no mortal youth, to be Of you confounded, but a heavenly guest, Assuming earthly garb for love of me, And hell’s demure attire for love of jest: Bringing me asphodel and a dark feather, He will return, and we shall laugh together! IV-XVII LOVING YOU LESS THAN LIFE Loving you less than life, a little less Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall Or brush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess I cannot swear I love you not at all. For there is that about you in this light-- A yellow darkness, sinister of rain-- Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight To dwell on you, and dwell on you again. And I am made aware of many a week I shall consume, remembering in what way Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek, And what divine absurdities you say: Till all the world, and I, and surely you, Will know I love you, whether or not I do. IV-XVIII I, BEING BORN A WOMAN