An Interior

Because you cannot sit with me
And read a book when night has come,
But press your hands upon your breast
And give your eyes to all unrest.
Because at windows and at doors
You glance, and wait the least wind-tap
Of pines against the prescient pane,
And if it does not come are fain,
Suddenly starting from your chair,
To go and see what may be there,—
I know that you can only care
For that which is not anywhere:

For that which calls without a voice,
Which moves without a shape,
Which wills, but ever without choice;
Which brings death—not escape.