'You know--we've got to end this--Miriam loves you . . . If she should ever know, or even guess it,-- What would she do?--Listen!--I'm not absurd . . . I'm sure of it. If you had eyes, for women-- To understand them--which you've never had-- You'd know it too . . . ' So went this colloquy, Half humorous, with undertones of pathos, Half grave, half flippant . . . while her fingers, softly, Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall, Now note by singing note, now chord by chord, Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure . . . Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness That she could neither break it--nor conclude? It paused . . . and wandered . . . paused again; while she, Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go,-- Half asked me if I thought I ought to go . . . Well, April passed with many other evenings, Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, With violets always there, and fragrant curtains . . . And she was right: and Miriam found it out . . . And after that, when eight deep years had passed-- Or nine--we met once more,--by accident . . . But was it just by accident, I wonder, She played this tune?--Or what, then, was intended? . . . V. MELODY IN A RESTAURANT The cigarette-smoke loops and slides above us, Dipping and swirling as the waiter passes; You strike a match and stare upon the flame. The tiny fire leaps in your eyes a moment, And dwindles away as silently as it came. This melody, you say, has certain voices-- They rise like nereids from a river, singing, Lift white faces, and dive to darkness again. Wherever you go you bear this river with you: A leaf falls,--and it flows, and you have pain. So says the tune to you--but what to me? What to the waiter, as he pours your coffee, The violinist who suavely draws his bow? That man, who folds his paper, overhears it. A thousand dreams revolve and fall and flow. Some one there is who sees a virgin stepping Down marble stairs to a deep tomb of roses: At the last moment she lifts remembering eyes. Green leaves blow down. The place is checked with shadows. A long-drawn murmur of rain goes down the skies. And oaks are stripped and bare, and smoke with lightning: And clouds are blown and torn upon high forests, And the great sea shakes its walls. And then falls silence . . . And through long silence falls This melody once more: 'Down endless stairs she goes, as once before.' So says the tune to him--but what to me? What are the worlds I see? What shapes fantastic, terrible dreams? . . . I go my secret way, down secret alleys; My errand is not so simple as it seems. VI. PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD