The Loneliness One dare not sound —
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size —
The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see —
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny —
The Horror not to be surveyed —
But skirted in the Dark —
With Consciousness suspended —
And Being under Lock —
I fear me this — is Loneliness —
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate — or seal —
NICE