Entombed together in the dark.

The hoarse church-bells of London ring;
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.