| |
| THIS realm is sacred to the silent past; | |
| Within its drowsy shades are treasures rare | |
| Of dust and dreams; the years are long since last | |
| A stranger’s footfall pressed the creaking stair. | |
| |
| This room no housewife’s tidy hand disturbs; | 5 |
| And here, like some strange presence, ever clings | |
| A homesick smell of dry forgotten herbs,— | |
| A musty odor as of mouldering things. | |
| |
| Here stores of withered roots and leaves repose, | |
| For fancied virtues prized in days of yore, | 10 |
| Gathered with thoughtful care, mayhap by those | |
| Whose earthly ills are healed forever more. | |
| |
| Here shy Arachne winds her endless thread, | |
| And weaves her silken tapestry unseen, | |
| Veiling the rough-hewn timbers overhead, | 15 |
| And looping gossamer festoons between. | |
| |
| Along the low joists of the sloping roof, | |
| Moth-eaten garments hang, a gloomy row, | |
| Like tall fantastic ghosts, which stand aloof, | |
| Holding grim converse with the long ago. | 20 |
| |
| Here lie remembrancers of childish joys,— | |
| Old fairy-volumes, conned and conned again, | |
| A cradle, and a heap of battered toys, | |
| Once loved by babes who now are bearded men. | |
| |
| Here, in the summer, at a broken pane, | 25 |
| The yellow wasps come in, and buzz and build | |
| Among the rafters; wind and snow and rain | |
| All enter, as the seasons are fulfilled. | |
| |
| This mildewed chest, behind the chimney, holds | |
| Old letters, stained and nibbled; faintly show | 30 |
| The faded phrases on the tattered folds | |
| Once kissed, perhaps, or tear-wet—who may know? | |
| |
| I turn a page like one who plans a crime, | |
| And lo! love’s prophecies and sweet regrets, | |
| A tress of chestnut hair, a love-lorn rhyme, | 35 |
| And fragrant dust that once was violets. | |
| |
| I wonder if the small sleek mouse, that shaped | |
| His winter nest between these time-stained beams, | |
| Was happier that his bed was lined and draped | |
| With the bright warp and woof of youthful dreams? | 40 |
| |
| Here where the gray incessant spiders spin, | |
| Shrouding from view the sunny world outside, | |
| A golden bumblebee has blundered in | |
| And lost the way to liberty, and died. | |
| |
| So the lost present drops into the past; | 45 |
| So the warm living heart, that loves the light, | |
| Faints in the unresponsive darkness vast | |
| Which hides time’s buried mysteries from sight. | |
| |
| Why rob these shadows of their sacred trust? | |
| Let the thick cobwebs hide the day once more; | 50 |
| Leave the dead years to silence and to dust, | |
| And close again the long unopened door. | |
| |
