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.