A Ride

My feather was brushing the top of the carriage
And I was looking into his eyes.
There was a pining in my heart
I could not recognize.
 
The evening was windless, chained
Solidly under a cloudbank,
As if someone had drawn the Bois de Boulogne
In an old album in black indian ink.
 
A mingled smell of lilac and benzine,
A peaceful watchfulness.
His hand touched my knees
A second time almost without trembling.

1913, May

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