Had passed and left me quiet, somehow it seemed As if it wasn't honest to change my mind, To send him away, or say I hadn't meant it-- And, anyway, it seemed so hard to explain! And so we sat and talked, not talking much, But meaning as much in silence as in words, There in that empty room with palms about us, That private dining-room . . . And as we sat there I felt my future changing, day by day, With unknown streets opening left and right, New streets with farther lights, new taller houses, Doors swinging into hallways filled with light, Half-opened luminous windows, with white curtains Streaming out in the night, and sudden music,-- And thinking of this, and through it half remembering A quick and horrible death, my husband's eyes, The broken-plastered walls, my boy asleep,-- It seemed as if my brain would break in two. My voice began to tremble . . . and when I stood, And told him I must go, and said good-night-- I couldn't see the end. How would it end? Would he return to-morrow? Or would he not? And did I want him to--or would I rather Look for another job?--He took my shoulders Between his hands, and looked down into my eyes, And smiled, and said good-night. If he had kissed me, That would have--well, I don't know; but he didn't . . And so I went downstairs, then, half elated, Hoping to close the door before that party In number four should sing that song again-- 'They'll soon be lighting candles round a box with silver handles'-- And sure enough, I did. I faced the darkness. And my eyes were filled with tears. And I was happy. IX. INTERLUDE The days, the nights, flow one by one above us, The hours go silently over our lifted faces, We are like dreamers who walk beneath a sea. Beneath high walls we flow in the sun together. We sleep, we wake, we laugh, we pursue, we flee. We sit at tables and sip our morning coffee, We read the papers for tales of lust or crime. The door swings shut behind the latest comer. We set our watches, regard the time. What have we done? I close my eyes, remember The great machine whose sinister brain before me Smote and smote with a rhythmic beat. My hands have torn down walls, the stone and plaster. I dropped great beams to the dusty street. My eyes are worn with measuring cloths of purple, And golden cloths, and wavering cloths, and pale. I dream of a crowd of faces, white with menace. Hands reach up to tear me. My brain will fail. Here, where the walls go down beneath our picks, These walls whose windows gap against the sky, Atom by atom of flesh and brain and marble Will build a glittering tower before we die . . .