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If I when my wife is sleeping |
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,— |
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Who shall say I am not |
the happy genius of my household? |
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