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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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