Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Second Book of Modern Verse. 1922.
Doors
L
Runs eager for the welcoming embrace,
And finds the door shut, and with troubled face
Calls and through sobbing calls, and o’er and o’er
Calling, storms at the panel—so before
A door that will not open, sick and numb,
I listen for a word that will not come,
And know, at last, I may not enter more.
By that closed door, the distant sob of tears
Beats on my spirit, as on fairy shores
The spectral sea; and through the sobbing—hark!
Down the fair-chambered corridor of years,
The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors.