Wings of ship, and bird, and cloud, and wave,
Flashing their signals of unrest.—
My longing is a warm thing in a cold street,
Taking refuge by the chinks of lighted doors—
My longing is a pale ghost stepping into the sunlight
That falls in golden curtains sumptuous and hushed—
My longing is a fiddler making a thin tune through the silence,
Through the heavy pauses of sleep.—
Ah! Stop up my ears lest I hear my longing call,
Lest I hear my loneliness crying!