Allan Dowling
DOROTHY
AND THE DELIG HTS OF MARRIAGE
An
afternoon in October;
the sunlight came into the room.
From the bed where we were lying
I could look out thru the half-drawn curtains
and see the trees of a park,
the
J
ardins du Roi Albert
pr
in Nice.
The weather was still warm,
and the window was open.
We could hear the sound of motor horns,
and the occasional jangle of a tram
in the nearby rue de France.
Over the tree-tops in front of me
the gay dome of the
J
etce Casino
lifted its mock-Byzantine gladness
against the blue of the sky.
'vVe had been married more than a month,
and I had only recently found the key,
or, rather, the combination,
to unlock those sudden springs of feeling
that lie hidden in the body;
for I am slow to learn,
and love is .an art as deep as dancing,
and as difficult as music.
Dorothy was asleep beside me,
and I didn't dare move,
as my arm was under her head.
I lay still and watched her,
noted her quiet breathing,
