And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . ' So then this ghost, Tokkei, Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants, And alone at the end of day Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait, And saw the quiet eyes Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup, And knelt, and did not rise, And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?' Said it three times aloud. And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense Rose to the walls in a cloud, And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred; And suddenly, with a sigh, The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait, And stood, while worlds went by, And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup; And the poet trembled, and said, 'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'--'Yes, I will stay.'-- 'But what when I am dead?' 'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit, And then we shall die no more.' Music came down upon them, and spring returning, They remembered worlds before, And years went over the earth, and over the sea, And lovers were born and spoke and died, But forever in sunlight went these two immortal, Tokkei and the quiet bride . . . III. HAUNTED CHAMBERS The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; The music changes tone, you wake, remember Deep worlds you lived before,--deep worlds hereafter Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. Elaine was married and soon to have a child. You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. To-morrow--what? And what of yesterday? Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, Through many doors to the one door of all. Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: Or see a skeleton fall . . . We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. This is the thing remembered I would forget-- No matter where I go, how soft I tread, This windy gesture menaces me with death. Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; Touches my throat and stops my breath. My fans--my jewels--the portrait of my husband-- The torn certificate for my daughter's grave-- These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. They signify no crime.