If I when my wife is sleepingand the baby and Kathleenare sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdance naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand 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, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—Who shall say I am notthe happy genius of my household?
