The telephone lines,
Etched by the lightning's needle
On the night plate of her window,
Seemed but as strands of a dream's phosphorescence
Flashed rippling to her out of the drench of the darkness

Yet one of them was bearing,
PasTher, through the wet shimmer of the shower,
The sinuous words — her husband's to his mistress —
" To-night, my passion-flower!"