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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=358637" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The House Of Dust: Part 03: 04: 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 suspected,<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 the 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 opened like a lotos,<br>And pressed it to her cheek, and closed her eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'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 fingers, 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> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=358637" data-title="The House Of Dust: Part 03: 04: 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 ..."></div> </div> </div>
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