WHITE ROOM

These be
Three silent things:
The falling snow . . the hour
Before the dawn . . the mouth of one
Just dead.

Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk . . as strange, as still . .
A white moth flew. Why am I grown
So cold?

a. Text:  Adelaide Crapsey, Triad (first) and The Warning (second), 1911-13

b. The Hour Before Dawn: Andy Mackay (Link)

c. Illustrations:  Charles Rennie Mackintosh, Four-Poster Bed and Washstand from The White Bedroom at Hous 'Hill, Glasgow (1904)

Ronald Firbank: Two Excerpts For A Sunday Morning (The Kibble Mirror)

    

 

 

      “When we were first married,” she said, “I was very, very wretched.  I would weep, weep, weep at night!  And in the morning, often my maid would have to put my pillow-case out upon the window-ledge to dry.  Fortunately, it was in Sicily, so it never took long.” 

-- Vainglory (1915)

  

      

     To watch the trees slip past in the dusk was entrancing quite.  In a meadow a shepardess with one white wether stood up and waved her crook.

     “Poor Palmer seems completely worn out.”
The maid stirred slightly at her name.

“When Greek meets Greek, miss,” she asked informingly, “can you tell me what they’re supposed to do?”

“Since we’re all English,” Miss O’Brookomore replied, “I don’t think it matters. . . . “

-- Inclinations (1916)