The feverish room and that white bed, br The tumbled skirts upon a chair, br The novel flung half-open where br Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints, are spread; br br The mirror that has sucked your face br Into its secret deep of deeps, br And there mysteriously keeps br Forgotten memories of grace; br br And you, half-dressed and half awake, br Your slant eyes strangely watching me, br And I, who watch you drowsily, br With eyes that, having slept not, ache; br br This (need one dread? nay, dare one hope?) br Will rise, a ghost of memory, if br Ever again my handkerchief br Is scented with White Heliotrope.