The Wolves

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