Peach-bloom and childish sprawl belie
The breast's new-rounding dignity,
A shadowy consideration behind the eye.

Arms of a fatherly great chair
Curl round to shield her from the prowling air,
The lamp bends curiously, tenderly toward her hair.

The room's a stage where firelight plays
Unjust charades, school tragedies;
It is that backward lantern-show enchants her gaze.

Her hand's dropped to her lap; once more
The sly shapes sidle through the door;
Last summer's anguish weeps and postures on the floor.

But rapt in ecstasy and rage,
Caught in the whirlpool of her age,
She cannot take her finger from her lips to touch the page.

Slow, slow the clock climbs towards the hour;
Sunk far, she will not know his power
Till he spills the last quarter in a shower

Of tingling silver. Then his hand will move
Her hand to turn the waiting page, and prove
New rhymes and stranger fables, legends of love and fear.