Sally Dupré watched over her dyeing-pots, Evening was setting in with a light slow rain That marched like a fairy army⁠—there being nothing From the white fog on the hill to the soaked door-stone But a moving grey and silver hurry of lances, Distinct yet crowded, thin as the edge of the moon, Carried in no fleshed hand. She thought to herself, “I have stained my arms with new colors, doing this work, The red is pokeberry-juice, the grey is green myrtle, The deep black is queen’s delight. If he saw me now With my hands so parti-colored he would not know them. He likes girls’ hands that nothing has stained but lotions, This is too fast a dye. I will dye my heart In a pot of queen’s delight, in the pokeberry sap, I will dye it red and black in the fool’s old colors And send it to him, wrapped in a calico rag, To keep him warm through the rain. It will keep him warm. And women in love do better without a heart.