| Light your cigarette, then, in this shadow, | | | And talk to her, your arm engaged with hers. | | | Heavily over your heads the eaten maple | | | In the dead air of August strains and stirs. | | | | | Her stone-white face, in the lamp-light, turns toward you; | 5 | | Darkly, with time-dark eyes, she questions you | | | Whether this universe is what she thinks it— | | | Simple and passionate and profound and true— | | | | | Or whether, as with a sound of dim disaster, | | | A plaintive music brought to a huddled fall, | 10 | | Some ancient treachery slides through the heart of things— | | | The last star falling, seen from the utmost wall … | | | | | And you—what sinister, far, reserves of laughter, | | | What understandings, remote, perplexed, remain | | | Unguessed forever by her who is your victim— | 15 | | Victim, of whom you too are victim again? | | | | | … Come! let us dance once more on the ancient asphalt: | | | Seeing, beneath its strange and recent shape, | | | The eternal horror of rock, from which, for ever, | | | We toss our tortured hands, to no escape. |
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