Things

Sometimes when I am at tea with you I catch my breath At a thought that is old as the world is old And more bitter than death.

It is that the spoon that you just laid down And the cup that you hold May be here shining and insolent When you are still and cold.

Your careless note that I laid away May leap to my eyes like flame When the world has almost forgotten your voice Or the sound of your name.

The golden Virgin da Vinci drew May smile on over my head, And daffodils nod in the silver vase When you are dead.

So let moth and dust corrupt and thieves Break through and I shall be glad, Because of the hatred I bear to things Instead of the love I had.

For life seems only a shuddering breath, A smothered, desperate cry, And things have a terrible permanence When people die.