BELOW, the street was hoarse with cries, 
With groan of carts and scuffling feet, 
With laughter worse than blasphemies, 
Was choked with dust and blind with heat, 
This room was still--too still for peace.

It heard the livid words we said 
Of hate and passion, watched us where 
I sat, as one beside the dead-- 
You lay with all your glorious hair 
Flung on the crazy bed.

The moment's passion ended brought-- 
Ah, child, to you what did it bring? 
What could it, but one hideous thought 
To us so tired of everything, 
And hating what we sought?

--So tired of all this grey room meant, 
Of life together, shackled cold, 
Or bound in flame so different 
From the swift, white desire of old, 
The old, divine consent.

Poor room, so meanly intimate! 
Our dirty clothes sprawled on a chair, 
Combs, candle-ends, and grimy plate 
Littered the table, paper and hair 
Forlornely choked the grate.

And I so passionate, you such 
A wild sweet plunderer of bliss 
Soon fallen in our own folly's clutch, 
Finding how wrong, how mad it is 
To know, to love, too much.

You rose, but with no woman's care 
For all the beauty that is hers, 
Pent up your out-burst storm of hair 
And fetched your cloak and found your purse, 
And matched my sullen stare.

Wild words so often said before 
Escape us in the old fierce way. 
You cried, "I shall return no more!" 
I said, "I shall no longer stay!" 
You closed the grumbling door.

The mirror grinned, "They are still one." 
The cupboard gasped, "Their clothes are here." 
The ghastly bed said with a leer, 
"I shall not sleep alone!"

They knew what took us years to learn, 
That Habit terrible and slow 
Doth Love and Hate alike inurn. 
They knew too well I should not go, 
They knew you would return.