Her Pity

This is the room to which she came that day, -
Came when the dusk was falling cold and gray,
Came with soft step, in delicate array.

And sat beside me in the firelight there:
And like a rose of perfume rich and rare
Thrilled with her sweetness the environing air.

We heard the grind of traffic in the street,
The clamorous calls, the beat of passing feet,
The wail of bells that in the twilight meet.

Then I knelt down, and dared to touch her hand, —
Those slender fingers, and the shining band
Of happy gold wherewith her wrist was spanned.

Her radiant beauty made my heart rejoice;
And then she spoke, and her low, pitying voice
Was like the soft, pathetic, tender noise

Of winds that come before a summer rain:
Once leaped the blood in every clamorous vein;
Once leaped my heart, then dumb, stood still again.