His voice said. But there was other than his voice. Something that heard warm rain on unopened flowers And spoke or tried to speak across swimming blackness To the slight profile and the wine-colored dress. Her hair was black. Her eyes might be black or grey. He could not remember, it irked him not to remember. But she was just Sally Dupré from Appleton Only she was not. Only she was a shadow And a white face⁠—a terrible, white shut face That looked through windows of inflexible glass Disdainfully upon the beauties of Byron And every puppy that ever howled for the moon To brush warm raindrops across the unopened flower And so quiet the heart with⁠—what? But you speak to her aunts. You are Wingate of Wingate Hall. You are not caught Like a bee drunk with the smell of honey, the smell of sleep, In a slight flower of glass whose every petal Shows eyes one cannot remember as black or grey. You converse easily on elegant subjects Suitable for young ladies. You do not feel The inexorable stairs of the flesh ascended