Classic Poem

WHEREIN HE FEARS LONGER TO BE ALONE

O little room, my harbour, my defence
From the rude buffet of a daily storm,
Thou art the fountain when the wild tears swarm
Out of my soul in the night's nude innocence!
O bed, that lulled with quiet influence
Many a turmoil, Love's hand, white and warm,
Suspends above thee black doubts multiform
As from a bowl and banishes me thence!
But more than rest and solitude, I rush
From my sole self and melancholy thought
Whose vain pursuit the wings of fancy push
So blindly: and the crowds my soul has fought
And hated, now as refuge have I sought,
Such is my dread of the strange lonesome hush!