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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358568" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Illicit</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of what she said to me that night—no matter. <br>The strange thing came next day. <br>My brain was full of music—something she played me; <br>I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it <br>Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, <br>Seeking for something, trying to tell me something, <br>Urging to restlessness, verging on grief. <br>I tried to play the tune, from memory— <br>But memory failed: the chords and discords climbed <br>And found no resolution, only hung there, <br>And left me morbid. Where, then, had I heard it? ... <br>What secret dusty chamber was it hinting? <br>'Dust,' it said, 'dust .... and dust .... and sunlight .... <br>A cold clear April evening .... snow-bedraggled .... <br>Rain-worn snow dappling the hideous grass .... <br>And someone walking alone; and someone saying <br>That all must end, for the time had come to go ... .' <br>These were the phrases; but behind, beneath them, <br>A greater shadow moved, and in this shadow <br>I stood and guessed Was it the blue-eyed lady? <br>The one who always danced in golden slippers?— <br>And had I danced, with her, upon this music? <br>Or was it further back—the unplumbed twilight <br>Of childhood? .... No—much recenter than that. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You know, without my telling you, how sometimes <br>A word or name eludes you, and you seek it <br>Through running ghosts of shadow—leaping at it, <br>Lying in wait for it to spring upon it, <br>Spreading faint snares for it of sense or sound ; <br>Until of a sudden, as if in a phantom forest, <br>You hear it, see it flash among the branches, <br>And, scarcely knowing how, suddenly have it. <br>Well, it was so I followed down this music, <br>Glimpsing a face in darkness, hearing a cry, <br>Remembering days forgotten, moods exhausted. <br>Corners in sunlight, puddles reflecting stars; <br>Until, of a sudden, and least of all expected, <br>The thing resolved itself: and I remembered <br>An April afternoon, eight years ago— <br>Or was it nine ?—no matter, call it nine— <br>A room in which the last of sunlight faded; <br>A vase of violets, fragrance in white curtains; <br>And she, who played this same thing later, playing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She played this tune. And in the middle of it <br>Abruptly broke it off, letting her hands <br>Fall in her lap. She sat there so a moment, <br>With shoulders drooped, then lifted up a rose, <br>One great white rose, wide open, like a lotus,<br>And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes.<br>'You know—we've got to end this—Miriam loves you.... <br>If she should ever know, or even guess it,<br>What would she do? Listen!—I'm not absurd.... <br>I'm sure of it. If you had eyes for women,<br>To understand them, which you've never had,<br>You'd know it too . . . .' So went this colloquy,<br>Half humorous, with undertones of pathos,<br>Half grave, half flippant .... while her ringers, softly,<br>Felt for this tune, played it and let it fall,<br>Now note by singing note, now chord by chord,<br>Repeating phrases with a kind of pleasure.<br>Was it symbolic of the woman's weakness<br>That she could neither break it—nor conclude?<br>It paused .... and wandered .... paused again; while she,<br>Perplexed and tired, half told me I must go, <br>Half asked me if I thought I ought to go.... </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well, April passed, with many other evenings, <br>Evenings like this, with later suns and warmer, <br>With violets always there, and fragrant curtains.... <br>And she was right. And Miriam found it out.... <br>And after that, when eight deep years had passed—<br>Or nine—we met once more, by accident.<br>But was it just by accident, I wonder,<br>She played this tune? Or what, then, was intended?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Conrad+Potter+Aiken">Conrad Potter Aiken</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358568" data-title="Illicit de Conrad Potter Aiken" data-description="Of what she said to me that night—no matter. 
The strange thing came next day. 
My brain was full of music—something she played me; 
I couldn't remember it all, but phrases of it 
Wreathed and wreathed among faint memories, 
Seeking for someth..."></div>
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