I Wrung My Hands

 I wrung my hands under my dark veil.
 .
 .

"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
-- Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.


I'll never forget.
 He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate.
 .
 .

I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.


And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun.
 Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain.
"
He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly --
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"

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