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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374593" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Interim</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The room is full of you!—As I came in<br>And closed the door behind me, all at once<br>A something in the air, intangible,<br>Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed<br>Each other room's dear personality.<br>The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,—<br>The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death—<br>Has strangled that habitual breath of home<br>Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;<br>And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change.<br>Save here. Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate<br>Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped<br>Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,<br>Sweet garden of a thousand years ago<br>And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!"</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You are not here. I know that you are gone,<br>And will not ever enter here again.<br>And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,<br>Your silent step must wake across the hall;<br>If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes<br>Would kiss me from the door.—So short a time<br>To teach my life its transposition to<br>This difficult and unaccustomed key!—<br>The room is as you left it; your last touch—<br>A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself<br>As saintly—hallows now each simple thing;<br>Hallows and glorifies, and glows between<br>The dust's grey fingers like a shielded light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is your book, just as you laid it down,<br>Face to the table,—I cannot believe<br>That you are gone!—Just then it seemed to me<br>You must be here. I almost laughed to think<br>How like reality the dream had been;<br>Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.<br>That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!<br>Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next,<br>And whether this or this will be the end";<br>So rose, and left it, thinking to return.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed<br>Out of the room, rocked silently a while<br>Ere it again was still. When you were gone<br>Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,<br>Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,<br>Silently, to and fro...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And here are the last words your fingers wrote,<br>Scrawled in broad characters across a page<br>In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,<br>Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.<br>Here with a looping knot you crossed a "t,"<br>And here another like it, just beyond<br>These two eccentric "e's." You were so small,<br>And wrote so brave a hand!<br> How strange it seems<br>That of all words these are the words you chose!<br>And yet a simple choice; you did not know<br>You would not write again. If you had known—<br>But then, it does not matter,—and indeed<br>If you had known there was so little time<br>You would have dropped your pen and come to me<br>And this page would be empty, and some phrase<br>Other than this would hold my wonder now.<br>Yet, since you could not know, and it befell<br>That these are the last words your fingers wrote,<br>There is a dignity some might not see<br>In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to-day."<br>To-day! Was there an opening bud beside it<br>You left until to-morrow?—O my love,<br>The things that withered,—and you came not back<br>That day you filled this circle of my arms<br>That now is empty. (O my empty life!)<br>That day—that day you picked the first sweet-pea,—<br>And brought it in to show me! I recall<br>With terrible distinctness how the smell<br>Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.<br>I know, you held it up for me to see<br>And flushed because I looked not at the flower,<br>But at your face; and when behind my look<br>You saw such unmistakable intent<br>You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.<br>(You were the fairest thing God ever made,<br>I think.) And then your hands above my heart<br>Drew down its stem into a fastening,<br>And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.<br>I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands!<br>Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.<br>Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust<br>In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven<br>When earth can be so sweet?—If only God<br>Had let us love,—and show the world the way!<br>Strange cancellings must ink th' eternal books<br>When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!<br>That first sweet-pea! I wonder where it is.<br>It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,<br>And yet,—I am not sure. I am not sure,<br>Even, if it was white or pink; for then<br>'Twas much like any other flower to me<br>Save that it was the first. I did not know<br>Then, that it was the last. If I had known—<br>But then, it does not matter. Strange how few,<br>After all's said and done, the things that are<br>Of moment.<br> Few indeed! When I can make<br>Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!<br>"I had you and I have you now no more."<br>There, there it dangles,—where's the little truth<br>That can for long keep footing under that<br>When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?<br>Here, let me write it down! I wish to see<br>Just how a thing like that will look on paper!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"I had you and I have you now no more."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O little words, how can you run so straight<br>Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?<br>How can you fall apart, whom such a theme<br>Has bound together, and hereafter aid<br>In trivial expression, that have been<br>So hideously dignified?—Would God<br>That tearing you apart would tear the thread<br>I strung you on! Would God—O God, my mind<br>Stretches asunder on this merciless rack<br>Of imagery! O, let me sleep a while!<br>Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back<br>In that sweet summer afternoon with you.<br>Summer? Tis summer still by the calendar!<br>How easily could God, if He so willed,<br>Set back the world a little turn or two!<br>Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We were so wholly one I had not thought<br>That we could die apart. I had not thought<br>That I could move,—and you be stiff and still!<br>That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb!<br>I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof<br>In some firm fabric, woven in and out;<br>Your golden filaments in fair design<br>Across my duller fibre. And to-day<br>The shining strip is rent; the exquisite<br>Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart<br>Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled<br>In the damp earth with you. I have been tom<br>In two, and suffer for the rest of me.<br>What is my life to me? And what am I<br>To life,—a ship whose star has guttered out?<br>A Fear that in the deep night starts awake<br>Perpetually, to find its senses strained<br>Against the taut strings of the quivering air,<br>Awaiting the return of some dread chord?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;<br>All else were contrast,—save that contrast's wall<br>Is down, and all opposed things flow together<br>Into a vast monotony, where night<br>And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,<br>Are synonyms. What now—what now to me<br>Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers<br>That clutter up the world? You were my song!<br>Now, let discord scream! You were my flower!<br>Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not<br>Plant things above your grave—(the common balm<br>Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)<br>Amid sensations rendered negative<br>By your elimination stands to-day,<br>Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;<br>I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth<br>With travesties of suffering, nor seek<br>To effigy its incorporeal bulk<br>In little wry-faced images of woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I cannot call you back; and I desire<br>No utterance of my immaterial voice.<br>I cannot even turn my face this way<br>Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you";<br>I know not where you are, I do not know<br>If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute,<br>Body and soul, you into earth again;<br>But this I know:—not for one second's space<br>Shall I insult my sight with visionings<br>Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed<br>Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air.<br>Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears!<br>My sorrow shall be dumb!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">—What do I say?<br>God! God!—God pity me! Am I gone mad<br>That I should spit upon a rosary?<br>Am I become so shrunken? Would to God<br>I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch<br>Makes temporal the most enduring grief;<br>Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,<br>With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep<br>Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths<br>For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is<br>That keeps the world alive. If all at once<br>Faith were to slacken,—that unconscious faith<br>Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone<br>Of all believing,—birds now flying fearless<br>Across would drop in terror to the earth;<br>Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins<br>Would tangle in the frantic hands of God<br>And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O God, I see it now, and my sick brain<br>Staggers and swoons! How often over me<br>Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight<br>In which I see the universe unrolled<br>Before me like a scroll and read thereon<br>Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl<br>Dizzily round and round and round and round,<br>Like tops across a table, gathering speed<br>With every spin, to waver on the edge<br>One instant—looking over—and the next<br>To shudder and lurch forward out of sight—</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> * * * * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, I am worn out—I am wearied out—<br>It is too much—I am but flesh and blood,<br>And I must sleep. Though you were dead again,<br>I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edna+St.+Vincent+Millay">Edna St. Vincent Millay</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=374593" data-title="Interim de Edna St. Vincent Millay" data-description="The room is full of you!—As I came in And closed the door behind me, all at once A something in the air, intangible, Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!— Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed Each other room's dear persona..."></div> </div> </div>
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