Classic Poem

The mist of the evening is rose
In the dying sun,
And the street is quiet between its rows of plane-trees
And the walls of the gardens
With the laurel bushes.

I walk along in a dream
Half aware
Of the empty black of the windows.

One window I pass by;
It is not empty;
Something shows from it, white, I feel, and round,
Something that pulls me back
To gaze, still dreaming,
To gaze and to wake and stare
At a naked woman—
O Beautiful—
Alone in the window, sitting.

Is there a sign?
Does she call me? What is the lure?
She does not move;
And I crawl to the gate, and stop,
And open the gate, again stopping,
And crawl again up the stone steps—
Fear driving my heart mad—
Up to the door.

Door, do not open
Though I beat you with my fist!