To-night the rain is scratching cautiously
And I am sick to death, remembering words
Droned in a dusk of sea-rain and sea-birds
Over the cordial lassitude of tea:
Her small white serious hands, each artery
Distinct and blue; the lemon sliced in thirds;
Her jest about the cream that always curds …
And everywhere the dull rain pitting the sea.

Salve the weak little fury of the flesh
With passion irresponsible and shrill:
Remorse will trap you in a bitter mesh,
And still the rain will tap at glass, and still,
Whenever, as to-night, it rains afresh,
You will remember what you cannot kill.