The veil dropped, she did not mean to drop it.
She picked it up and shielded herself from us with her hand
With a tender, tinted palm as if its fingers
Were tendrils, on their boughs, which did not dry
And with profuse, curly, coal-black hair, its growth
Like a vine that leant against the propped trellis.
She looked at you with a need she could not express
The look of the patient at the faces of visitors.