And yet⁠—and yet⁠—in some cold Northern room, Does anyone else stare out the obdurate moon With doubtful passion, seeing his toys of fighting Scribbled all over with such silver writing From such a heart of peace, they seem the stale Cast properties of a dead and childish tale? And does he see, too soon, Over the horse, over the horse and rider, The grey, soft swathing shadowness of the spider, Spinning his quiet loom?

No⁠—no other man is cursed With such doubleness of eye, They can hunger, they can thirst, But they know for what and why.

I can drink the midnight out, And rise empty, having dined. For my courage and my doubt Are a double strand of mind, And too subtly intertwined. They are my flesh, they are my bone, My shame and my foundation-stone. I was born alone, to live alone.