I turn dust through my palm
as if through a spindle,
I sink to my knees;
sleep, which has scorned me
like an unwanted suitor
takes me now to her fragrant parlor.
A sonorous wind begins, lifting the green veils
That mask the arbor-frame of hollow wood,
A sweet remembrance of my childhood,
and a former language, with great effort acquired
and lost in haste, recalls itself to me slowly
and fitfully, like rain through a hand,
like a love long abandoned; inures itself
as a perfumed gas;
The dovy hours pass
bowing their heads as they go,
hooded heralds of my weal and woe.
And I still as at my nuptial hour
encircled by the cozening sward,
waited in the earth's broad bower,
waited on a bright, reluctant word.
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