The Fever

by ROBERT GRAVES

WHERE the room may be, I do not know.
It is beamed and parqueted,
With yew logs charring on a broad hearth,
Curtains of taffeta, chairs of cherry,
And a rough wolfskin to lie at ease upon
Naked before the fire in half-darkness;
The shadowy bed behind.

Who she may be I do not know,
Nor do I know her nation.
She is truthful, she is tender,
In everything a woman, but the claws:
Her skin moon-blanched, her arms lissom,
Her tawny tresses hanging free,
Her frown eloquent.

What we do together, that I know;
But when, eludes me;
Whether long ago, one night, or never . . .
Meaning? Meaning in some recess of Time,
Untemporal yet sure . . .
Why should it irk me? Now I must rest —
She says so with her frown.