There now is nothing left to fear
But this,
This curtain of blackness.

Once I feared you,
And all you thought and felt

And all you said and did: 
I feared myself,
And all you made me think and feel
And say and do—­

Now I no longer fear
Thinking, feeling, saying, doing,

Nor blankness, silence, apathy, torpor—­

I do not fear
You, or me, or death—­

I only fear
This curtain of blackness
Which is your absence.

V. THE DREAM

Harlequin comes to me, smiling,
Through the white-shining birch trees
Of the twilight wood.

He has forgiven
My cowardice and hesitations,
Soon I shall sink into his arms
With all the imagined fervour... 
Of a thousand dreams.

Why does he come so slowly? 
There is no longer anything
To mar our meeting...

This must be real
For Harlequin is still clowning,
He waves his arms grotesquely
To make me smile....

Quick, into his arms
With unspent fervour. 
Why are the trees all sighing? 
Look, whispering birches, if you will,
I and my love embrace!

They do not look,
They do not seem to care...

Embrace me, my beloved! 
(Can these by passionate kisses? 
They feel so thin and cool
Like mist.)

The birches shiver
As though the night-wind stirred them.

Can we be dead?

Portrait of a Gentleman

Tower of stone
Rugged and lonely,
My thoughts like ivy
Embrace my memory of you,
Climbing riotously, wantonly,
Till the harsh walls
Are clothed in tender green.

Tower of stone,
Stark walls and a narrow door
Which speak: 
     “You who are not for me
     Are against me,—­
     If you are mine,
     Enter!”

But who would be prisoned
In unknown darkness?

Tower of stone
Rugged and lonely,
I dared not enter and I would not go
Till clasping you
My arms were bruised and torn.

From the Madison Street Police Station

I, John Shepherd, vagrant,
Petition the park commissioners
For wider benches.

My soul has long been reconciled
To the prick of gunny-sack,
(O well-remembered woollen fleeces!)
And rustling vests of newspaper,
And the chill of rubbers on unshod feet,
But to the wasteful burning of dry leaves,
God’s shepherd’s mattress,
Never!

Descendant of ancient ones
Who tended flocks and watched the midnight sky,
My forebears saw the Eastern star appear
Over Judean hills.

Where do your flocks graze, gentlemen? 
Are there no sheep or shepherds any more? 
All day long I sought the flocks
And came by night to a wide, grassy place,
Where I could sit and watch the stars wheel by—­
And in the morning some one brought me here.