Through the open window can be seen the poplars at the end of the garden shaking in the wind, a wall of green leaves so high that the sky is shut off.
On the white table-cloth a rose in a vase --centre of a sphere of odour-- contemplates the crumbs and crusts left from a meal: cups, saucers, plates lie here and there.
And a sparrow flies by the open window, stops for a moment, flutters his wings rapidly, and climbs an aerial ladder with his claws that work close in to his soft, brown-grey belly.
But behind the table is the face of a man.
The blue mist of after-rain fills all the trees;
the sunlight gilds the tops of the poplar spires, far off, behind the houses.
Here a branch sways and there a sparrow twitters.
The curtain's hem, rose-embroidered, flutters, and half reveals a burnt-red chimney pot.
The quiet in the room bears patiently a footfall on the street.
I sat there in the dark of the room and of my mind thinking of men's treasons and bad faith, sinking into the pit of my own weakness before their strength of cunning. Out over the gardens came the sound of some one playing five-finger exercises on the piano.
Then I gathered up within me all my powers until outside of me was nothing: I was all-- all stubborn, fighting sadness and revulsion.
And one came from the garden quietly, and stood beside me. She laid her hand on my hair; she laid her cheek on my forehead,-- and caressed me with it; but all my being rose to my forehead to fight against this outside thing. Something in me became angry; withstood like a wall, and would allow no entrance; I hated her.
“What is the matter with you, dear?” she said. “Nothing,” I answered, “I am thinking.” She stroked my hair and went away; and I was still gloomy, angry, stubborn.
Then I thought: she has gone away; she is hurt; she does not know what poison has been working in me.
Then I thought: upstairs, her child is sleeping; and I felt the presence of the fields we had walked over, the roads we had followed, the flowers we had watched together, before it came.
She had touched my hair, and only then did I feel it; And I loved her once again.
And I came away, full of the sweet and bitter juices of life; and I lit the lamp in my room, and made this poem.