The dream

Dear, though the night is gone

Its dream still haunts today,

That brought us to a room

Cavernous, lofty as

A railway terminus,

And crowded in that room

Were beds, and we in one

In a far corner lay.

Our whisper woke no clocks,

We kissed and I was glad

At everything you did,

Indifferent to those

Who sat with hostile eyes

In pairs on every bed,

Arms round each others necks,

Inert and vaguely sad.

O but what worm of guilt

Or what malignant doubt

Am I the victim of,

That you then, unabashed,

Did what I never wished,

Confessed another love;

And I, submissive, felt

Unwanted and went out.