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....