THIS night has been so strange that it seemed <br />As if the hair stood up on my head. <br />From going-down of the sun I have dreamed <br />That women laughing, or timid or wild, <br />In rustle of lace or silken stuff, <br />Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read <br />All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing <br />Returned and yet unrequited love. <br />They stood in the door and stood between <br />My great wood lectern and the fire <br />Till I could hear their hearts beating: <br />One is a harlot, and one a child <br />That never looked upon man with desire. <br />And one, it may be, a queen.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/presences/
