Portrait Of A Woman

The pathos in your face is like a peace,         It is like resignation or a grace         Which smiles at the surcease         Of hope. But there is in your face         The shadow of pain, and there is a trace         Of memory of pain.         I look at you again and again,         And hide my looks lest your quick eye perceives         My search for your despair.         I look at your pale hands, I look at your hair;         And I watch you use your hands, I watch the flare         Of thought in your eyes like light that interweaves         A flutter of color running under leaves,         Such anguished dreams in your eyes!         And I listen to you speak         Words like crystals breaking with a tinkle,         Or a star's twinkle.         Sometimes as we talk you rise         And leave the room, and then I rub a streak         Of a tear from my cheek.         You tell me such magical things         Of pictures, books, romance         And of your life in France         In the varied music of exquisite words,         And in a voice that sings.         All things are memory now with you,         For poverty girds         Your hopes, and only your dreams remain.         And sometimes here and there         I see as you turn your head a whitened hair,         Even when you are smiling most.         And a light comes in your eyes like a passing ghost,         And a color runs through your cheeks as fresh         As burns in a girl's flesh.         Then I can shut my eyes and feel the pain         That has become a part of you, though I feign         Laughter myself. One sees another's bruise         And shakes his thought out of it shuddering.         So I turn and clamp my will lest I bring         Your sorrow into my flesh, who cannot choose         But hear your words and laughter,         And watch your hands and eyes.         Then as I think you over after         I have gone from you, and your face         Comes to me with its grace         Of memory of unfound love:         You seem to me the image of all women         Who dream and keep under smiles the grief thereof,         Or sew, or sit by windows, or read books         To hide their Secret's looks.         And after a time go out of life and leave         No uttered words but in their silence grieve         For Life and for the things no tongue can tell:         Why Life hurts so, and why Love haunts and hurts         Poor men and women in this demi-hell.         Perhaps your pathos means that it is well         Death in his time the aspiring torch inverts,         And all tired flesh and haunted eyes and hands         Moving in paind whiteness are put under         The soothing earth to brighten April's wonder.