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， grotesquely¹

    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 drawn² shades，-

    Who shall say I am not

    the happy genius of my household？