Who comes, with stark and cheerless face
to the glow of my door?
Who, by right of way and passages:
with sadness, and time’s infallible stamp upon his brow,
comes to me now? I am old.
I would see Daisies,
and upward lift to lips, and yellow dresses or suits.
I would see petit-fours and doilies on plates;
Linen napkins for a dear friend’s face.
I would have talk that drifts to songs or silence,
either fit for kings or common folk: That the most.
I would see chartreuse, poured,
and silken pillows made comfortable against flesh.
I would have all this within my summer night
Or I would be alone, left to rest. Left to rest.