The Pigeons

Well I remember the pigeons in the sunny arbor
Beyond your open door;
How they conversed throughout the afternoon in their monotonous voices never for a moment still;
Always of yesterday they spoke, and of the days before,
Rustling the vine-leaves, twitching the dark shadows of the leaves on the bright sill.

You said, the soft curring and droning of the pigeons in the vine
Was a pretty thing enough to the passer-by,
But a maddening thing to the man with his head in his hands,—“Like mine! Like mine!”
You said, and ran to the door and waved them off into the sky.

They did not come back. The arbor was empty of their cooing.
The shadows of the leaves were still. “Whither have they flown, then?”
I said, and waited for their wings, but they did not come back. If I had known then
What I know now, I never would have left your door.

Tall in your faded smock, with steady hand
Mingling the brilliant pigments, painting your intersecting planes you stand,
In a quiet room, empty of the past, of its droning and cooing,
Thinking I know not what, but thinking of me no more,
That left you with a light word, that loving and rueing
Walk in the streets of a city you have never seen,
Walk in a noise of yesterday and of the days before,
Walk in a cloud of wings intolerable, shutting out the sun as if it never had been.