Two women come nightly into my dreams.
One twines her ghost-pale fingers in my hair
And spills upon by breast -- soft breathing there --
Strange scents that have the tang of shrouded streams.
And she who in the blanching moonlight-beams
Draws night and whispers me (Ah sweet! So fair
Is she with rose-red mouth!), singe me the rare
Most charmed, illicit fragments of her themes.
But when I would of fettering dreams be free
And spurn the cramping pillow, nothing loath
To clasp each close, and call her soft by name --
Not witching Love, nor pale Desire I see! --
But on the wall the sinister shades of both
Merged in the one hag-snap of blear-eyed Shame!
First published in The Triad, 10 January 1920
