“What art mooning at, fool?
Some wanton boy and his limbs?
Such dreams should be put to school:
I'll chasten these fleshly whims!”
He has shot the bolts on her room
In the brazen tower.
“Remain there, ninny: your doom
Till the sand sifts your last hour!”
With eyes grieving on space,
Has she sight among all these blind?
Because of her dreaming face....
How harshly the great keys grind!
They have gone. She clenches her hands,
She struggles and makes soft moan....
Then smiles, for she understands:
The soul is never alone.