what's o'clock
209
On gravel stirred the silence with an impression of placid order
Peacefully repeated through a season and seasons perhaps, but the odour of the box was an ache
After the same perfection which existed inevitably in every parterre and border.
Mirrors of a yellow-silver shining topped the consoles at either end,
Behind twin alabaster vases, and in tarnished and golden duplicate, a blend
Of fact and potent possibility, the room stretched dreamily through
Walls that were solid or not as one beheld them, depending on the point of view.
Sunlight fell on the satin-wood escritoire between the windows,
And on a single Malmaison rose
And the green Ming vase which held it,
Also on a letter, I suppose.
Peacefully repeated through a season and seasons perhaps, but the odour of the box was an ache
After the same perfection which existed inevitably in every parterre and border.
Mirrors of a yellow-silver shining topped the consoles at either end,
Behind twin alabaster vases, and in tarnished and golden duplicate, a blend
Of fact and potent possibility, the room stretched dreamily through
Walls that were solid or not as one beheld them, depending on the point of view.
Sunlight fell on the satin-wood escritoire between the windows,
And on a single Malmaison rose
And the green Ming vase which held it,
Also on a letter, I suppose.
