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.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/white-heliotrope/
