The Wolves

There are wolves in the next room waiting

With heads bent low, thrust out, breathing

At nothing in the dark; between them and me

A white door patched with light from the hall

Where it seems never (so still is the house)

A man has walked from the front door to the stair.

It has all been forever. Beasts claw the floor.

I^have brooded on angels and archfiends

But no man has ever sat where the next room's

Crowded with wolves, and for the honor of man

I affirm that never have I before. Now while

I have looked for the evening star at a cold window

And whistled when Arcturus spilt his light,

I've heard the wolves scuffle, and said: So this

Is man; so-what better conclusion is there-

The day will not follow night, and the heart

Of man has a little dignity, but less patience

Than a wolf's, and a duller sense that cannot

Smell its own mortality. (This and other

Meditations will be suited to other times

After dog silence howls his epitaph.)

Now remember courage, go to the door,

Open it and see whether coiled on the bed

Or cringing by the wall, a savage beast

Maybe with golden hair, with deep eyes

Like a bearded spider on a sunlit floor

Will snarl-and man can never be alone.