Now she will lean away to fold
The window blind and curtain back,
The yellow arms, the hips of gold,
The supple outline fading black,
Bosom availing nothing now,
And rounded shadow of long thighs.
How can she care for us, allow
The shade to blind imagined eyes.

Behind us, where we sit by trees,
Blundering autos lurch and swerve
On gravel, crawling on their knees
Around the unfamiliar curve;
Farther behind, a passing train
Ignores our lost identity;
So, reassured, we turn again
To see her vanish under sky.

Soon we must leave her scene to night,
To stars, or the indiscriminate
Pale accidents of lantern light,
A watchman walking by too late.
Let us return her now, my friends,
Her love, her body to the grave
Fancy of dreams where love depends.
She gave, and did not know she gave.