Arthur Symons (1865–1945)

WHEN I am walking sadly or triumphantly,

With eyes that brood upon the smould’ring thought of you,

And long desire and brief delight leap up anew,

Why is it that the eyes of all men turn to me?

There ’s pity in the eyes of women as they turn,

And in the eyes of men self-pity, fear, desire:

As those who see the far-off shadow of a fire

Gaze earnestly, and wonder if their roof-trees burn.