GOD
WHAT is that face at the window?
What is that form at the door?
Of white mist are its shadowy limbs
And with moonlight covered o'er.
Is it a girl or a ghost?
Pile up the fuel higher!
Pour out the wine and heat the roast!
Let us warm ourselves at the fire.
Look! It wavers and moans.
It is very cold and drear!
Pelt it with nuts and cherry-stones!
It must not enter here.
Let us talk philosophy,
While the roast is on the spit.
That moonlit thing which wavers there,
What have we to do with it?
Listen! Its white lips move.
Christ! Are you mad that you rise
As if each one saw his buried love
Stand living before his eyes?
I have no love. I lie!
I lie not! — The wine is poured
And the roast is ready; and I —
I refuse to believe in God!
