Beyond the window the moon may be in riot
With the winter night. But your voice having ceased
In the room here, silence comes, barefooted,
To cover the leavings of our frugal feast.
Your hands rest on the table, clasped, quiet.
Kind as a country servant, silence moves
About us, with a tender dignity smoothing
The unseemly creases in our loves.
Your eyes upon me change no more than the rooted
Shadow beside your chair. Your eyes know
Upon what song this night has locked her throat.
The melody trembles toward us, still too low
To name, though the music mounts above our breathing,
Mounts, and mingles with, far off, a train
That pants harshly of journeys. Your eyes upon me.
We are alone again.