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- TO DOROTHY WELLESLEY
-
- STRETCH towards the moonless midnight of the trees,
- As though that hand could reach to where they stand,
- And they but famous old upholsteries
- Delightful to the touch; tighten that hand
- As though to draw them closer yet.
- Rammed full
- Of that most sensuous silence of the night
- (For since the horizon's bought strange dogs are still)
- Climb to your chamber full of books and wait,
- No books upon the knee, and no one there
- But a Great Dane that cannot bay the moon
- And now lies sunk in sleep.
- What climbs the stair?
- Nothing that common women ponder on
- If you are worrh my hope! Neither Content
- Nor satisfied Conscience, but that great family
- Some ancient famous authors mistepresent,
- The proud Furies each with her torch on high.
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