Something chill and obscuring and dead—
The miasmatic mist of the soul of the lonely.
When night comes and the buyers are gone their ways,
I go into the little room behind my shop.
It is my home—my silent and lonely home;
But it has fire, it has food; there is a bed;
Pictures are on the walls, showing the faces
I kissed in girlhood. I am myself here;
All my forced smiles are laid away with the moline
And the ribbon and roses. I may do as I please.