If I am lonely, I am lonely. Let
No charity relent: I charge you now,
Wherever you are this moment, that you set
The placid garland closer on your brow.
The sun hangs like a hawk before he drops
Outstripping his own shadow; and a bird
Pivots on one brief throaty bell—and stops
The anxious echo—and is no more heard.

If I am lonely, what is that to you?
Under this casual moon and under that
Sufficient star the broad world is chalked blue,
The streets are glutted silver. . . . If a bat
Soaks his black leather and his blind eyes through
With silver, what have you to shudder at?