Among a crowd of tenuous dreams, unknown To us of restless brain and weary feet, Forever hurrying, up and down the street, She stands at evening in the room alone.
Not like a tranquil goddess carved of stone But evanescent, as if one should meet A pensive lamia in some wood-retreat, An immaterial fancy of one’s own.
No meditations glad or ominous Disturb her lips, or move the slender hands; Her dark eyes keep their secrets hid from us, Beyond the circle of our thoughts she stands.
The parrot on the bar, a silent spy, Regards her with a patient curious eye.