And a comb, a silly gilt comb
--Ah, God--that I should suffer
Because of the way a little finger moved.




Once I saw thee idly rocking
--Idly rocking--
And chattering girlishly to other girls,
Bell-voiced, happy,
Careless with the stout heart of unscarred
womanhood,
And life to thee was all light melody.
I thought of the great storms of love as I
knew it,
Torn, miserable, and ashamed of my open
sorrow,
I thought of the thunders that lived in my
head,
And I wish to be an ogre,
And hale and haul my beloved to a castle,
And make her mourn with my mourning.




Tell me why, behind thee,
I see always the shadow of another lover?
Is it real,