There are wolves in the next room waiting <br />With heads bent low, thrust out, breathing <br />At nothing in the dark; between them and me <br />A white door patched with light from the hall <br />Where it seems never (so still is the house) <br />A man has walked from the front door to the stair. <br />It has all been forever. Beasts claw the floor. <br />I^have brooded on angels and archfiends <br />But no man has ever sat where the next room's <br />Crowded with wolves, and for the honor of man <br />I affirm that never have I before. Now while <br />I have looked for the evening star at a cold window <br />And whistled when Arcturus spilt his light, <br />I've heard the wolves scuffle, and said: So this <br />Is man; so-what better conclusion is there- <br />The day will not follow night, and the heart <br />Of man has a little dignity, but less patience <br />Than a wolf's, and a duller sense that cannot <br />Smell its own mortality. (This and other <br />Meditations will be suited to other times <br />After dog silence howls his epitaph.) <br />Now remember courage, go to the door, <br />Open it and see whether coiled on the bed <br />Or cringing by the wall, a savage beast <br />Maybe with golden hair, with deep eyes <br />Like a bearded spider on a sunlit floor <br />Will snarl-and man can never be alone.<br /><br />Allen Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wolves-3/
