And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word, The word already clear, Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . . He held his breath to hear, And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine, And held a candle, and searched her face Through all the little shadows, to see what secret Might give so warm a grace . . . Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little? The eyes, half-turned aside? The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . . The secret was denied, He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses, And slept; and as he slept A dream came into his heart, his lover entered, And chided him, and wept. And in the morning, waking, he remembered, And thought the dream was strange. Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden? He turned, and felt a change, As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . . Yet there was only sunlight there. Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling, And held his breath to stare, And could have sworn her cheek had turned--a little . . . Had slightly turned away . . . Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered, Nor left his room that day. And that day, and for many days thereafter, He sat alone, and thought No lady had ever lived so beautiful As Hiroshigi wrought . . . Or if she lived, no matter in what country, By what far river or hill or lonely sea, He would look in every face until he found her . . . There was no other as fair as she. And before her quiet face he burned soft incense, And brought her every day Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry, And somehow, she seemed to say, That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling, That she was happy there; And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble, And desired to touch her hair, To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly With delicate finger-tips The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish Upon her lips . . . Until he knew he loved this quiet lady; And night by night a dread Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi Was many centuries dead,-- And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . . Dead, and long turned to dust . . . The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler, The peach leaves flew in a gust, And he would surely have died; but there one day A wise man, white with age, Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi Knew more than archimage,-- Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit, Till partly it entered there . . . Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . . Do all I say with care,