I travel as a phantom now,

For people do not wish to see

In flesh and blood so bare a bough

   As Nature makes of me.

And thus I visit bodiless

Strange gloomy households often at odds,

And wonder if Man’s consciousness

   Was a mistake of God’s.

And next I meet you, and I pause,

And think that if mistake it were,

As some have said, O then it was

   One that I well can bear!

1915.