Evil
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!
WAR-TIME
If I go out of the door,
It will not be
To take the road to the left that leads
Past the bovine quiet of houses
Brooding over the cud of their daily content,
Even though
The tranquility if their gardens
Is a lure that once was stronger;
Even though
From privet hedge and mottled laurel
The young green peeps,
And the daffodils
And the yellow and white and purple crocuses
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