'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,-- Posturing like bald apes before a mirror; No pity dims our eyes . . . How many others, like ourselves, this instant, See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .' Well, you are right . . . No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . . When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly, And even those most like angels creep for schemes. The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, Opens a door through which you see dark dreams. But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring, Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . . And all these others who at your conjuration Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,-- Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important, Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces, Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,-- Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways, Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter, Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows, Lean to the music, rise, And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion With kindness in their eyes . . . They say (as we ourselves have said, remember) 'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us! And how it brings to mind forgotten things!' They say 'How strange it is that one such evening Can wake vague memories of so many springs!' And so they go . . . In a thousand crowded places, They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime, And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree. With secret symbols they play on secret passions. With cunning eyes they see The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling, The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . . The pendulum on the wall Shakes down seconds . . . They laugh at time, dissembling; Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all. X. LETTER From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees The soft blue starlight through the one small window, The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,-- And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly. It is so long, indeed, since I have written,-- Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,-- That these first words I write seem cold and strange. Are you the man I knew, or have you altered? Altered, of course--just as I too have altered-- And whether towards each other, or more apart, We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter-- Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure--