This Night Has Been So Strange That It Seemed As If The Hair Stood Up On My Head. From Going-Down Of The Sun I Have Dreamed That Women Laughing, Or Timid Or Wild, In Rustle Of Lace Or Silken Stuff, Climbed Up My Creaking Stair. They Had Read All I Had Rhymed Of That Monstrous Thing Returned And Yet Unrequited Love. They Stood In The Door And Stood Between My Great Wood Lectern And The Fire Till I Could Hear Their Hearts Beating: One Is A Harlot, And One A Child That Never Looked Upon Man With Desire, And One It May Be A Queen.