MEETING
I came from the City of Fear,
From the scarred brown land of pain,
Back into life again ...
And I thought, as the leave-boat rolled
Under the veering stars—
Wind a-shriek in her spars—
Shivering there, and cold,
Of music, of warmth, and of wine—
To be mine
For a whole short week ...
And I thought, adrowse in the train,
Of London, suddenly near;
And of how—small doubt—I should find
There, as of old,
Some woman—foolishly kind:
Fingers to hold,
A cheek,
A mouth to kiss—and forget,
Forget in a little while,
Forget
When I came again
To the scarred brown land of pain,
To the sodden things and the vile,
And the tedious battle-fret.
I remember the poise of your head,
And your look, and the words you said
When we met,
And the waxen bloom at your breast,
And the sable fur that caressed
Your smooth white wrists, and your hands ...
Remember them yet,
Here
In the desolate lands;
Remember your shy
Strange air,
And growing aware—
I,
Who had reckoned love
Man’s toy for an hour—
Of love’s hidden power:
A thrill
That moved me to touch and adore
Some intimate thing that you wore—
A glove,
Or the flower
A-glow at your breast,
The frill
Of fur that circled your wrist ...
These, had my hands caressed;
These, not you, had I kissed—
I,
Who had thought love’s fires
Only desires.
Dear,
That hidden power thrills in me yet.
There is never one hour—
Not even here
In this City of Fear—
When I quite forget.