Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust: Time, like a flurry of rain, Patters and passes, starring the window-pane. Once, long ago, one night, She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light, Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down, Softly around her a breath of roses was blown, She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . . 'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm, We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide, The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows. 'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight! Look how the tower is changed and glows!' Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music, We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass; A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble; We tremble like wind-blown grass. What was this dream we had, a dream of music, Music that rose from the opening earth like magic And shook its beauty upon us and died away? The long cold streets extend once more before us. The red sun drops, the walls grow grey. VIII. THE BOX WITH SILVER HANDLES Well,--it was two days after my husband died-- Two days! And the earth still raw above him. And I was sweeping the carpet in their hall. In number four--the room with the red wall-paper-- Some chorus girls and men were singing that song 'They'll soon be lighting candles Round a box with silver handles'--and hearing them sing it I started to cry. Just then he came along And stopped on the stairs and turned and looked at me, And took the cigar from his mouth and sort of smiled And said, 'Say, what's the matter?' and then came down Where I was leaning against the wall, And touched my shoulder, and put his arm around me . . . And I was so sad, thinking about it,-- Thinking that it was raining, and a cold night, With Jim so unaccustomed to being dead,-- That I was happy to have him sympathize, To feel his arm, and leaned against him and cried. And before I knew it, he got me into a room Where a table was set, and no one there, And sat me down on a sofa, and held me close, And talked to me, telling me not to cry, That it was all right, he'd look after me,-- But not to cry, my eyes were getting red, Which didn't make me pretty. And he was so nice, That when he turned my face between his hands, And looked at me, with those blue eyes of his, And smiled, and leaned, and kissed me-- Somehow I couldn't tell him not to do it, Somehow I didn't mind, I let him kiss me, And closed my eyes! . . . Well, that was how it started. For when my heart was eased with crying, and grief