from Mrs. Dalloway…
Her evening dresses hung in the cupboard.
Clarissa, plunging her hand into the softness,
gently detached the green dress and carried
it to the window. She had torn it. Someone
had trod on the skirt. She had felt it give at
the Embassy party at the top among the folds.
By artificial light the green shone, but lost its
colour now in the sun. She would mend it.
Her maids had too much to do. She would
wear it tonight. She would take her silks,
her scissors, her – what was it? Her thimble,
of course, down into the drawing-room...
Quiet descended on her, calm, content,
as her needle, drawing the silk smoothly
to its gentle pause, collected the green