BLACK-VEILED, black-gowned, she rides in bus and train, With eyes that fill too listlessly for tears. Her waxen hands clasp and unclasp again. Good News, they cry. She neither sees nor hears. Good News, perhaps, may crown some far-off king. Good News may peal the glory of the state— Good News may cause the courts of heaven to ring. She sees a hand waved at a garden gate. For her dull ears are tuned to other themes; And her dim eyes can never see aright. She glides—a ghost—through all her April dreams, To meet his eyes at dawn, his lips at night. Wraiths of a truth that others never knew; And yet—for her—the only truth that's true. |