III
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he October night comes down; returning as beforeExcept for a slight sensation of being ill at easeI mount the stairs and turn the handle of the doorAnd feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees. "And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?But that's a useless question.You hardly know when you are coming back,You will find so much to learn."My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac. "Perhaps you can write to me."My self-possession flares up for a second;This is as I had reckoned. "I have been wondering frequently of late(But our beginnings never know our ends!)Why we have not developed into friends."I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remarkSuddenly, his expression in a glass.My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark. "For everybody said so, all our friends,They all were sure our feelings would relateSo closely! I myself can hardly understand.We must leave it now to fate.You will write, at any rate.Perhaps it is not too late.I shall sit here, serving tea to friends." And I must borrow every changing shapeTo find expression... dance, danceLike a dancing bear,Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance--Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;Should die and leave me sitting pen in handWith the smoke coming down above the housetops;Doubtful, for quite a whileNot knowing what to feel or if I understandOr whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...Would she not have the advantage, after all?This music is successful with a "dying fall"Now that we talk of dying--And should I have the right to smile?
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