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 worth my hope! Neither Content Nor satisfied Conscience, but that great family Some ancient famous authors misrepresent, The proud Furies each with her torch on high.