and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees，-
if I in my north room
dance naked， grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself：
"I am lonely， lonely，
I was born to be lonely，
I am best so！"
If I admire my arms， my face，
my shoulders， flanks， buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades，-
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household？