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....