“CONTRARY TO NATURE AND ARISTOTLE.”

One head of my soul's amphisbaena

Turns to the daytime's dust and sweat;

But evenings come, when I would forget

The sordid strife of the arena.

And then my other self will creep

Along the scented twilight lanes

To where a little house contains

A hoard of books, a gift of sleep.

Its windows throw a friendly light

Between the narrowing shutter slats,

And, golden as the eyes of cats,

Shine me a welcome through the night.