By midnight all the street noises were stilled
except for now and then a slamming door,
a gust of muffled laughter, orβin the distanceβ
the old Sixth Avenue Elβs receding roar.
You stood at the window. I had left off playing
Schumannβs Des Abends on the scratched upright
and turned to you now, thinking at last youβd utter
such words as had eluded us all night.
Your gaze gave back my own. Your pensive eyes,
aglint with tears, darkened as though to warn me
that even now our great game might be lost,
and so I rose, not speaking, and stood by youβ
and saw then, on your desk in the dim corner,
that opened letter, vengeful as a ghost.
βFrederick Morgan