THE WOMAN ALONE

My eyes are girt with outer mists;

My ears sing shrill, and this I bless;

My finger-nails do bite my fists

In ecstasy of loneliness.

This I intend, and this I want,

That — passing — you may only mark

A dumb soul with its confidant

Entombed together in the dark.

The hoarse church-bells of London ring;

The hoarser horns of London croak;

The poor brown lives of London cling

About the poor brown streets like smoke;

The deep air stands above my roof

Like water, to the floating stars.

My Friend and I — we sit aloof,—

We sit and smile, and bind our scars.

For you may wound and you may kill —

It's such a little thing to die —

Your cruel God may work his will,

We do not care, my Friend and I.

Though, at the gate of Paradise,

Peter the Saint withhold his keys,

My Friend and I — we have no eyes

For Heav'n or Hell — or dreams like these....