There's nothing to be sad about.
Sadness is a crime, a prison.
A strange impression, I have risen
From the grey canvas like a sheet.
Up-flying arms, with a bad break,
Tormented smile—I and the sitter
Had to become thus through the bitter
Hours of profligate give and take.
He willed it that it should be so,
With words that were sinister and dead.
Fear drove into my lips the red,
And into my cheeks it piled the snow.
No sin in him. I was his fee.
He went, and arranged other limbs,
And other draperies. Void of dreams,
I lie in mortal lethargy.
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