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One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
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We talked between the Rooms— Until the Moss had reached our lips— And covered up—our names—
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Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
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Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those we have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things.
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Retreat was out of hope,— Behind, a sealed route, Eternity's white flag before, And God at every gate.
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