The window stirs upon the rain,
Alone upon the candles, drips in trochee
Blemishes on a lost idyll beyond a pane,
We stayed and went as a quiet strain
Upon the shawl, all around the darkened sea,
Just like the memory as it rests, may it stay.
Down, the twist of shawl at the rim lain
It is in darkened chapels where it rests upon a cowl sheet,
And it is heard through the wind, as a mourning river lay.
I whisper to darkened virgin cresses, will it leave me away?
I hope it does not. It twists upon a morning ray of heat,
And it wakes me upon midnight near with a rose in a palais,
Will you be by the river? My shadow stays.
What would it leave to the torn skin where lights retreat?
As I wonder, I know it will be away.
I touch the rain as it darkens; the flowers amain
Gather in their white cresses at the northern pleat
Upon my hands—they go on the torn flower, lain
On the broken wind, where they must stay.
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