When she sleeps, her soul, I know,
Goes a wanderer on the air,
Wings where I may never go,
Leaves
her lying, still and fair,
Waiting, empty, laid aside,
Like a dress upon a chair. . . .
This I know, and yet I
know
Doubts that will not be denied.
For if the soul be not in place,
What has laid trouble in her face?
And, sits there nothing ware and wise
Behind
the curtains of her eyes,
What is it, in the self's eclipse,
Shadows, soft and passingly,
About the corners of
her lips,
The smile that is essential she?
And if the spirit be not there,
Why is fragrance in the hair?