COMPANY

Like a tyrant slanting to his ruin,
I grow each year that passes more alone;
death growls around the basement of my palace;
and all my flatterers are now reduced to four.

Until the night sinks down, all four stay with me,
moving swarms of light thoughts about;
they are my fine-voiced intimates, they give
disillusion a cradle, dreams to the heart.

When everyone is sleeping they draw still closer,
can suit their measure to my desire;
they hide, from these eyes, all other things,

wishful that my delight be not disturbed.
The light, a book, a rose, are they,
and a great tree blacker than the night.