F. S. Flint

From “In London”

THE MIST of the evening is rose

In the dying sun,

And the street is quiet between its rows of plane-trees,

And the walls of the gardens

With the laurel bushes.

I walk along in a dream,

Half aware

Of the empty black of the windows.

One window I pass by.

It is not empty:

Something shows from it—white, I feel, and round—

Something that pulls me back

To gaze, still dreaming,

To gaze and to wake and stare

At a naked woman—

Oh, beautiful!

Alone in the window.

Is there a sign?

Does she call me?

What is the lure?

She does not move.

And I crawl to the gate, and stop,

And open the gate, again stopping,

And crawl again up the stone steps—

Fear driving my heart mad—

Up to the door.

Door, do not open—

Though I beat you with my fists!