Shapes of Clay

Well, I've met her again—at the Mission.

She'd told me to see her no more;

It was not a command—a petition;

I'd granted it once before.

Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me.

Repenting her virtuous freak—

Subdued myself daily and nightly

For the better part of a week.

And then ('twas my duty to spare her

The shame of recalling me) I

Just sought her again to prepare her

For an everlasting good-bye.

O, that evening of bliss—shall I ever

Forget it?—with Shakespeare and Poe!

She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never

To see me again. And now go."

As we parted with kisses 'twas human

And natural for me to smile

As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman:

She'll send for me after a while."

But she didn't; and so—well, the Mission

Is fine, picturesque and gray;

It's an excellent place for contrition—

And sometimes she passes that way.

That's how it occurred that I met her,

And that's ah there is to tell—

Except that I'd like to forget her

Calm way of remarking: "I'm well."

It was hardly worth while, all this keying

My soul to such tensions and stirs

To learn that her food was agreeing

With that little stomach of hers.