The House Of Dust: Part 02: 10: Sudden Death

Number four, the girl who died on the table,     The girl with golden hair,     The purpling body lies on the polished marble.     We open the throat, and lay the thyroid bare . . .     One, who held the ether-cone, remembers     Her dark blue frightened eyes.     He heard the sharp breath quiver, and saw her breast     More hurriedly fall and rise.     Her hands made futile gestures, she turned her head     Fighting for breath; her cheeks were flushed to scarlet,     And, suddenly, she lay dead.     And all the dreams that hurried along her veins     Came to the darkness of a sudden wall.     Confusion ran among them, they whirled and clamored,     They fell, they rose, they struck, they shouted,     Till at last a pallor of silence hushed them all.     What was her name? Where had she walked that morning?     Through what dark forest came her feet?     Along what sunlit walls, what peopled street?     Backward he dreamed along a chain of days,     He saw her go her strange and secret ways,     Waking and sleeping, noon and night.     She sat by a mirror, braiding her golden hair.     She read a story by candlelight.     Her shadow ran before her along the street,     She walked with rhythmic feet,     Turned a corner, descended a stair.     She bought a paper, held it to scan the headlines,     Smiled for a moment at sea-gulls high in sunlight,     And drew deep breaths of air.     Days passed, bright clouds of days. Nights passed. And music     Murmured within the walls of lighted windows.     She lifted her face to the light and danced.     The dancers wreathed and grouped in moving patterns,     Clustered, receded, streamed, advanced.     Her dress was purple, her slippers were golden,     Her eyes were blue; and a purple orchid     Opened its golden heart on her breast . . .     She leaned to the surly languor of lazy music,     Leaned on her partners arm to rest.     The violins were weaving a weft of silver,     The horns were weaving a lustrous brede of gold,     And time was caught in a glistening pattern,     Time, too elusive to hold . . .     Shadows of leaves fell over her face, and sunlight:     She turned her face away.     Nearer she moved to a crouching darkness     With every step and day.     Death, who at first had thought of her only an instant,     At a great distance, across the night,     Smiled from a window upon her, and followed her slowly     From purple light to light.     Once, in her dreams, he spoke out clearly, crying,     I am the murderer, death.     I am the lover who keeps his appointment     At the doors of breath!     She rose and stared at her own reflection,     Half dreading there to find     The dark-eyed ghost, waiting beside her,     Or reaching from behind     To lay pale hands upon her shoulders . . .     Or was this in her mind? . . .     She combed her hair. The sunlight glimmered     Along the tossing strands.     Was there a stillness in this hair,     A quiet in these hands?     Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes,     Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust.     She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever.     Leaves flew past her window along a gust . . .     And graves were dug in the earth, and coffins passed,     And music ebbed with the ebbing hours.     And dreams went along her veins, and scattering clouds     Threw streaming shadows on walls and towers.