My feather was brushing the top of the carriage
And I was looking into his eyes.
There was a pining in my heart
I could not recognise.
The evening was windless, chained
Solidly under a cloudbank,
As if someone had drawn the
In an old album in black Indian ink.
A mingled smell of lilac and benzene,
A peaceful watchfulness.
His hand touched my knees
A second time almost without trembling.
(from Rosary, 1913)