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.