I. <br /> <br />SOME busy hands have brought to light, <br />And laid beneath my eye, <br />The dress I wore that afternoon <br />You came to say good-by. <br /> <br />About it still there seems to cling <br />Some fragrance unexpressed, <br />The ghostly odor of the rose <br />I wore upon my breast; <br /> <br />And, subtler than all flower-scent, <br />The sacred garment holds <br />The memory of that parting day <br />Close hidden in its folds. <br /> <br />The rose is dead, and you are gone, <br />But to the dress I wore <br />The rose's smell, the thought of you, <br />Are wed forevermore. <br /> <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />That day you came to say good-by <br />(A month ago! It seems a year!) <br />How calm I was! I met your eye, <br />And in my own you saw no tear. <br /> <br />You heard me laugh and talk and jest, <br />And lightly grieve that you should go; <br />You saw the rose upon my breast, <br />But not the breaking heart below. <br /> <br />And when you came and took my hand, <br />It scarcely fluttered in your hold. <br />Alas, you did not understand! <br />For you were blind, and I was cold. <br /> <br />And now you cannot see my tears, <br />And now you cannot hear my cry. <br />A month ago? Nay, years and years <br />Have aged my heart since that good-by.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/some-busy-hands/
