Clients have left their photos there to perish.She watches through green shutters those who pressTo reach unconsciousness.
She licks her varnished thin magenta lips,She picks her foretooth with a finger nail,She pokes her head out to greet new clients, orTo leave them (to what torture) waiting at the door.
Heat has locked the heavy earth,Given strength to every sound,He, where his life still holds him to the ground,In anæsthesia, groaning for re-birth,Leans at the door.From out the house there comes the dullest flutter;A lackey; and thin giggling from behind that shutter.
His lost eyes lean to find and read the number.Follows his knuckled rap, and hesitating curse.He cannot wake himself; he may not slumber;While on the long white wall across the roadDrives the thin outline of a dwindling hearse.
Now the door opens wide.
He: ."Is there room inside?."She: ."Are you past the bounds of pain?."He: ."May my body lie in vain Among the dreams I cannot keep!."She: ."Let him drink the cup of sleep.."
Thin arms and ghostly hands; faint sky-blue eyes;Long drooping lashes, lids like full-blown moons,Clinging to any brink of floating skies:What hope is there? What fear?.-Unless to wake and seeLingering flesh, or cold eternity.
O yet some face, half living, bringsFar gaze to him and croons:She: ."You're white. You are alone. Can you not approach my sphere?."He: ."I'm changing into stone.."She: ."Would I were! Would I were!."Then the white attendants fill the cup.
In the morning through the world,Watch the flunkeys bring the coffee;Watch the shepherds on the downs,Lords and ladies at their toilet,Farmers, merchants, frothing towns.
But look how he, unfortunate, now fumblesThrough unknown chambers, unheedful stumbles.Can he evade the overshadowing night?Are there not somewhere chinks of braided light?
How do they leave who once are in those rooms?Some may be found, they say, deeply asleepIn ruined tombs.Some in white beds, with faces round them. SomeWander the world, and never find a home.
