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Your face is like a chamber where a king
by
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Your face is like a chamber where a king Dies of his wounds, untended and alone, Stifling with courteous gesture the crude moan That speaks too long of mortal perishing, Rising on elbow in the dark to sing Some rhyme now out of season but well known In days when banners in his face were blown And every woman had a rose to fling. I know that through your eyes which look on me Who stand regarding you with pitiful breath, You see beyond the moment's pause, you see The sunny sky, the skimming bird beneath, And, fronting on your windows hopelessly, Black in the noon, the broad estates of Death.
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