Conscious am I in my chamber
Of a shapeless friend,
He doth not attest by posture
Nor confirm by word.
Neither place need I present him,
Fitter courtesy
Hospitable intuition
Of his company.
Presence is his furthest license,
Neither he to me
Nor myself to him by accent
Forfeit probity.
Weariness of him were quainter
Than monotony
Knew a particle of space’s
Vast society.
Neither if he visit Other—
Does he dwell—or nay—
Know I,
But instinct reports Him
Immortality.
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