I have trodden level sand
Along a reach of gray--
From dune-top to sea's end,
No breathing thing but me.
I have dropped the heavy latch
Against the rain's tap,
And shivered by the fire, to watch
The dark hours slip.
The desolate beach, the midnight storm--
I dwelt alone with these;
But here, within your bended arm,
Is loneliness.
by Dorothy Parker
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