| This night has been so strange that it seemed |
| As if the hair stood up on my head. |
| From going-down of
the sun I have dreamed |
| That women laughing, or timid or wild, |
| In rustle of lace or silken stuff, |
| Climbed
up my creaking stair. They had read |
| All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing |
| Returned and yet unrequited
love. |
| They stood in the door and stood between |
| My great wood lectern and the fire |
| Till I could hear their
hearts beating: |
| One is a harlot, and one a child |
| That never looked upon man with desire, |
| And one, it
may be, a queen. |