Page:Ephemera, Greek prose poems (IA ephemeragreek00buckrich).pdf/62



Thou seest, stranger, she has gone; and we know not whither. This gaping doorway, these empty walls darkened with the fumes of many lamps, this desolate garden: these are her heritage.

Through the nights, long since, we heard her weeping. And then, one morning, she was gone. This necklace upon my breast was hers. Little Iris sleeps now upon her abandoned couch.

Perhaps she is dead. Perhaps she was only weary of this place. Perhaps she wished, suddenly to forget. But she has gone as thou seest, O silent stranger, and, in all the world, we know not whither.