TO DOROTHY WELLESLEY
 
 STRETCH towards the moonless midnight of the trees,
 As though that hand could reach to where they stand,
 And they but famous old upholsteries
 Delightful to the touch; tighten that hand
 As though to draw them closer yet.
 Rammed full
 Of that most sensuous silence of the night
 (For since the horizon's bought strange dogs are still)
 Climb to your chamber full of books and wait,
 No books upon the knee, and no one there
 But a Great Dane that cannot bay the moon
 And now lies sunk in sleep.
 What climbs the stair?
 Nothing that common women ponder on
 If you are worrh my hope! Neither Content
 Nor satisfied Conscience, but that great family
 Some ancient famous authors mistepresent,
 The proud Furies each with her torch on high.