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....