The hoarser horns of London croak;

The poor brown lives of London cling

About the poor brown streets like smoke;

The deep air stands above my roof

Like water, to the floating stars.

My Friend and I—we sit aloof,—

We sit and smile, and bind our scars.

For you may wound and you may kill—

It’s such a little thing to die—

Your cruel God may work his will,

We do not care, my Friend and I.

Though, at the gate of Paradise,

Peter the Saint withhold his keys,

My Friend and I—we have no eyes

For Heav’n or Hell—or dreams like these....

THE INEVITABLE

There is a sword, a fatal blade,

Unthwarted, subtle as the air,

And I could meet it unafraid

If I might only meet it fair.

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