THE PATTERN

The pattern on the whitening sheet
Doth glimmer, quiver, softly play:
Now shapes a face, an oval meet,
Now whirls my head with time’s array…

This figured weave, when touched by hand,
— Lo! vision’s breath is onward poured,
It streams upon the bed I stand,
A river shed from eyes o’er-stored.

Yet tears no thorn within me drive,
They quicken only heart’s assay;
The tablets of my sheets alive
Proclaim what morrow shall convey.

O pattern, stitch my heart’s deep scars
With cunning needle in the night,
That wounds may close, and cease their wars;
Enwind me close, cleave fast and tight.

By morn all dreads shall melt and flee,
Men shall behold but pattern fair,
Where headless stems on block they see,
Entangling some beholder’s stare.