She heard the children playing in the sun, br And through her window saw the white-stemmed trees br Sway like a film of silver in the breeze br Under the purple hills; and one by one br She noted chairs and cabinets, and spun br The pattern of her bed's pale draperies: br Yet all the while she knew that each of these br Was a dull lie, in irony begun. br For down in hell she lay, whose livid fires br Love may not quench, whose pangs death may not quell. br The round immensity of earth and sky br Shrank to a point that speared her. Loves' desires, br Darkened to torturing ministers of hell, br Whose mockery of joy deepened the lie. br Little eternities the black hours were, br That no beginning knew, that knew no end. br Day waned, and night came like a faithless friend, br Bringing no joy; till slowly over her br A numbness grew, and life became a blur, br A silence, an oblivion, a dark blend br Of dim lost agonies, whose downward trend br Led into time's eternal sepulchre. br And yet, when, after aeons infinite br Of dark eclipse she woke—lo, it was day! br The pictures hung upon the walls, each one; br Under the same rose-patterned coverlet br She lay; spring was still young, and still the play br Of happy children sounded in the sun.