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.