The Blue Scarf
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ale, with the blue of high zeniths, shimmered over with silver, brocadedIn smooth, running patterns, a soft stuff, with dark knotted fringes,it lies there,Warm from a woman's soft shoulders, and my fingers close on it, caressing.Where is she, the woman who wore it? The scent of her lingers and drugs me!A languor, fire-shotted, runs through me, and I crush the scarf downon my face,And gulp in the warmth and the blueness, and my eyes swimin cool-tinted heavens.Around me are columns of marble, and a diapered, sun-flickered pavement.Rose-leaves blow and patter against it. Below the stone steps a lute tinkles.A jar of green jade throws its shadow half over the floor. A big-belliedFrog hops through the sunlight and plops in the gold-bubbled water of a basin,Sunk in the black and white marble. The west wind has lifted a scarfOn the seat close beside me, the blue of it is a violent outrage of colour.She draws it more closely about her, and it ripples beneathher slight stirring.Her kisses are sharp buds of fire; and I burn back against her, a jewelHard and white; a stalked, flaming flower; till I break toa handful of cinders,And open my eyes to the scarf, shining blue in the afternoon sunshine. How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!
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