If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white discin silken mists above shining trees, —if I in my north room dance nakedgrotes quely before my mirror waving my shirt round my headand 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?