Presences
This night has been so strange that it seemedAs if the hair stood up on my head.From going-down of the sun I have dreamedThat women laughing, or timid or wild,In rustle of lace or silken stuff,Climbed up my creaking stair. They had readAll I had rhymed of that monstrous thingReturned and yet unrequited love.They stood in the door and stood betweenMy great wood lecturn and the fireTill I could hear their hearts beating:One is a harlot, and one a childThat never looked upon man with desire,And one it may be a queen.
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