Here, in a simple pattern of separate violets-- With scalloped edges gilded--here you have me Thinking of something else. My wife, you know,-- There's something lacking--force, or will, or passion, I don't know what it is--and so, sometimes, When I am tired, or haven't slept three nights, Or it is cloudy, with low threat of rain, I get uneasy--just like poplar trees Ruffling their leaves--and I begin to think Of poor Pauline, so many years ago, And that delicious night. Where is she now? I meant to write--but she has moved, by this time, And then, besides, she might find out I'm married. Well, there is more--I'm getting old and timid-- The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve! I never strike out boldly as I used to-- But sit here, painting violets, and remember That thrilling night. Photographers, she said, Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,-- Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,-- Were thought so beautiful.--And so they were. Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . . Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling! Well, I suppose such days can come but once. Lord, how happy we were! . . . Here, if you only knew it, is a story-- Here, in these leaves. I stopped my work to tell it, And then, when I had finished, went on thinking: A man I saw on a train . . . I was still a boy . . . Who killed himself by diving against a wall. Here is a recollection of my wife, When she was still my sweetheart, years ago. It's funny how things change,--just change, by growing, Without an effort . . . And here are trivial things,-- A chill, an errand forgotten, a cut while shaving; A friend of mine who tells me he is married . . . Or is that last so trivial? Well, no matter! This is the sort of thing you'll see of me, If you look hard enough. This, in its way, Is a kind of fame. My life arranged before you In scrolls of leaves, rosebuds, violets, ivy, Clustered or wreathed on plate and cup and platter . . . Sometimes, I say, I'm just like John the Baptist-- You have my head before you . . . on a platter. VIII. COFFINS: INTERLUDE Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour: At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . . The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones. We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky. We are like music, each voice of it pursuing A golden separate dream, remote, persistent, Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair. What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . . We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.