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