My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little

pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong.

The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes

are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do

any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down

and amuse me while I rest."

The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb

the opposite wall.

Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting,

and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her,

where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo.

The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear.

He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands.

His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room

is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands

the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour

on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs

his name.

"Peter, I don't want it. I am tired."

And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed.

There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky.


"Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone."

"How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love,

I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write

`No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear,

that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage

strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied

the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me,

you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat.

Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot

feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay."

"As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will

crush your heart and squeeze the love out."

He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about."

"Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must

have sight! I _must_!"

The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall,

the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman

by a silver thread.

They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there

are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased

in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket

is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away.

They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce

over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting

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