In memory of S. B. V., 1834-1909 <br /> <br />... so what the lame four-poster gathered here <br />Between the lips of stale and seasoned sheets <br />Startles a memory sunlit upon the wall <br />(Motors and urchins contest the city streets) <br /> <br />While towards the bed the rigid shadows lean <br />Stung to the patience of all emptiness <br />And the bed empty where she kept, <br />Jerky gnats lunge at the haggard screen. <br /> <br />And now upstairs the lint that crusts the sills <br />Erodes in a windy shift along the floor. <br />Shall now her touselled eyes rinse out the haze <br />Of winter sprawled like a waif outside the door? <br /> <br />Feet answer: alternate and withdrawn <br />To the hard ease of lacquered pine that clamps <br />The shuffled fists into the breast and neck. <br /> <br />Time begins to elucidate her bones <br /> <br />Then you, so crazy and inviolate, <br />Will finger the console with a fearful touch, <br />Go past the horsehair sofa, the gilded frames <br />Whose faces are tired names <br />For the lifeblood that labors you so much.<br /><br />Allen Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/obituary-7/
