Rain-murmurings; the wind whines and snuffles, wet
As a poor dog, whose lord has ceased to care
For faithful things like dogs; and you, Pierrette,
With little firelit face and fire-gold hair,
Curled like a kitten in an easy chair,
Who purrs for stroking. Velvet-soft — and yet,
Who knows, behind your yellow eyes, what brain
May serve you? Hark! . . . the little whine of rain.
Rose-red azaleas around you bend,
Soft from your lamp the rose-red shadows fall.
See, golden eyes, how rose and golden blend,
As panther firelight leaps along the wall.
Outside, the lost rain shakes a dripping coat,
Stifling the restless whimper in his throat.