From 'The Flower of Flame'
 

 Before I woke I knew her gone,

Though nothing high had stirred;

Now by the curtain inward blown

She stood, not seen, but heard,

Where faint moonlight dimmed or shone. . .

And neither spoke a word.



 One hand against her mouth she pressed,

But could not stanch its cry;

The other knocked upon her breast

Impotently. . . while I

Glared rigid, labouring, possessed,

And dared not ask her why.