PRESENCES
 
 THIS night has been so strange that it seemed
 As if the hair stood up on my head.
 From going-down of the sun I have dreamed
 That women laughing, or timid or wild,
 In rustle of lace or silken stuff,
 Climbed up my creaking stair.  They had read
 All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing
 Returned and yet unrequited love.
 They stood in the door and stood between
 My great wood lectern and the fire
 Till I could hear their hearts beating:
 One is a harlot, and one a child
 That never looked upon man with desire.
 And one, it may be, a queen.