Tenderly, in those times, as though she fed An ailing child--with sturdy propping up Of its small, feverish body in the bed, And steadying of its hands about the cup-- She gave her husband of her body’s strength, Thinking of men, what helpless things they were, Until he turned and fell asleep at length, And stealthily stirred the night and spoke to her. Familiar, at such moments, like a friend, Whistled far off the long, mysterious train, And she could see in her mind’s vision plain The magic World, where cities stood on end . . . Remote from where she lay--and yet--between, Save for something asleep beside her, only the window screen. V-XIII FROM THE WAN DREAM From the wan dream that was her waking day, Wherein she journeyed, borne along the ground Without her own volition in some way, Or fleeing, motionless, with feet fast bound, Or running silent through a silent house Sharply remembered from an earlier dream, Upstairs, down other stairs, fearful to rouse, Regarding him, the wide and empty scream Of a strange sleeper on a malignant bed, And all the time not certain if it were Herself so doing or some one like to her, From this wan dream that was her daily bread, Sometimes, at night, incredulous, she would wake-- A child, blowing bubbles that the chairs and carpet did not break! V-XIV SHE HAD A HORROR She had a horror he would die at night. And sometimes when the light began to fade She could not keep from noticing how white The birches looked--and then she would be afraid, Even with a lamp, to go about the house And lock the windows; and as night wore on Toward morning, if a dog howled, or a mouse Squeaked in the floor, long after it was gone Her flesh would sit awry on her. By day She would forget somewhat, and it would seem A silly thing to go with just this dream And get a neighbor to come at night and stay. But it would strike her sometimes, making the tea: _She had kept that kettle boiling all night long, for_ _company._ V-XV THERE WAS UPON THE SILL There was upon the sill a pencil mark, Vital with shadow when the sun stood still At noon, but now, because the day was dark, It was a pencil mark upon the sill. And the mute clock, maintaining ever the same Dead moment, blank and vacant of itself, Was a pink shepherdess, a picture frame, A shell marked Souvenir, there on the shelf. Whence it occurred to her that _he_ might be, The mainspring being broken in his mind, A clock himself, if one were so inclined, That stood at twenty minutes after three-- The reason being for this, it might be said, That things in death were neither clocks nor people, but only dead. V-XVI THE DOCTOR ASKED HER