And so we dreams share this flat:
gas fire, elegant suits, and tea. Yet we
Were harpies once, we tore
at a foul State bent on fouler war:
Shrieking stranglehaired Furies--
at least then we could soar!
Now, respectable, the Gorgon guards the hearth.

So comes a jagged prowler. Wolf.

My heart's slid out from under me again:
Out in the dark--rappeling the rain--
On the fire escape, a scrape--
The Granny's suicide-window, open--

Newest lurker round the fire,
Green eyes mock my tasteful gray attire.