This house of flesh and bone
Which he and I
Together occupy
Together, yet alone
May not belong to me,
And I may be the visitor, not he.

For what am I, and what
Is there at all
That I may surely call
My own? And may it not
So be that I am here
But as his pensioner from year to year?

Till now, I cannot trace
The deeds that give
Me any right to live
One moment in the place;
While he may hold a scrip
Establishing his claim to ownership.

He seems my friend, and yet
I scarcely know
How far it may be so;
I hesitate to let
My thoughts incline
To one who seems both much and little mine.

When I in mirrors look,
And in them see
Myself surveying me,
As from a pictured book,
I sometimes think he tries
To meet me at the windows of my eyes:

But nothing real occurs
For my poor sake;
Pupil and iris make
Unkindly barriers
Between us, that remain
To baffle me, again and yet again.

And just so much I know
Of him: no more.
And if I push each door
Wide open as J go
In search of him, he still
Evades me; arid I fear he always will.

This tenement of clay
We live in must
Soon crumble into dust,
And vanish all away
From any sight of men:
And where will he and I be living then?