Let us, you and I,
Once more linger over this trampled bed,
The labor of our innocence;
Where we hid.
My Mary sews in this evening's light.
I watch and observe her keenly now--
the wan-dry roses on her cheek,
the sorrow stitched upon her brow,
Draw back the curtain of indifference
At all her ageless temple where gravestones life.