She sits in her parlor

    at the corner of the room

With curtains drawn and candle lit

    which casts a pall of gloom.

Shadows dance along the walls

    of darkly printed cloth

And light reflecting from her eyes

    shows mournfully and soft.

She sits in her parlor

    at the corner of the room,

An aura casts about her head

    as frost about the moon.

Her slender hands show gracefully

    as on her lap they lay

And there, a glimmer peaks out from

    the corner of her eye.

She sits in her parlor

    at the corner of the room,

The fragrance of her cold teapot

    combines with her perfume.

The napkins and the cups laid out

    with condiments and spoons

wait, as she, most patiently

    as in a silent swoon.

Her long white dress of flowing silk

    shows flickers from the flame

And her face, though pale and gaunt,

    could never be just plain.

Such noble cheeks as smooth as snow

    upon a winter's eve

Host tiny streaks below her eyes

    that seek a tear's reprieve.

She sits in her parlor

    at the corner of the room,

Perhaps lost in time and space

    expecting someone soon.

Perhaps too late to see her there,

    anticipation gone

But still she sits, stoically,

    perhaps until the dawn.

She sits in her parlor

at the corner of the room

    And all about her shadows fall

within that social tomb.

It seems a shame to shed a tear

    for that which can not be,

My only wish, that I was there

    to share her cup of tea.

~Robert E Browne~

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