Jane looks down at her organdy skirt As if it somehow were the thing disgraced, For being there, on the floor, in the dirt, And she catches it up about her waist, Smooths it out along one hip, And pulls it over the crumpled slip.
On the porch, green-shuttered, cool, Asleep is Bertram that bronze boy, Who, having wound her around a spool, Sends her spinning like a toy...