February 24th
A spell of fine soft weather
Tonight, on my way home
I took a long look at the president's house
The white portico
Palace like, tall, round columns
The tender and soft moonlight flooding the pale marble
And making peculiar, faint languishing shades
Not shadows
Everywhere a soft, transparent, hazy, thin, blue moon-lace
Hanging in the air
Everything so white, so pure and dazzling, yet soft
The White House of our future dreams and dramas
Full of reality, full of illusion
The White House of our land, and of beauty and of the night
Sentries at the gate
Silent, pacing blue overcoats
Not stopping me, but eyeing me with sharp eyes
Whichever way I move
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