Moving across the light, on agitated hips. 
She hurries away bread crusts and grape stones 
And glances in mid-talk, as if from fear,
At the irreproachable sea. Lanes frown away 
Through the gaps in the hills she is looking at now 
In the other window; but the floor throws up 
Immediately, there, fresh patterns of her hands 
And hair quite undismayed. So why is afternoon's 
Not beginning easily? Is the room 
Not set correctly for the thing to come? 
Or did we break some subject much too soon?