Sanary

Her little hot room looked over the bay

Through a stiff palisade of glinting palms,

And there she would lie in the heat of the day,

Her dark head resting upon her arms,

So quiet, so still, she did not seem

To think, to feel, or even to dream.

The shimmering, blinding web of sea

Hung from the sky, and the spider sun

With busy frightening cruelty

Crawled over the sky and spun and spun.

She could see it still when she shut her eyes,

And the little boats caught in the web like flies.

Down below at this idle hour

Nobody walked in the dust street;

A scent of a dying mimosa flower

Lay on the air, but sweet—too sweet.