FOOTFALLS
As on a velvet midnight, in a house
Silent and shuttered, all its life withdrawn
Through the dark windows, one can faintly hear
A muffled footfall passing down the street;
And knowing nothing of the one who walks
Is conscious yet that some one wakes and moves
Intent upon a pleasure or a task. It may be friend
Or open foe. It may be stranger, for, to you
Only the echo of the feet has come.
Silent and shuttered, all its life withdrawn
Through the dark windows, one can faintly hear
A muffled footfall passing down the street;
And knowing nothing of the one who walks
Is conscious yet that some one wakes and moves
Intent upon a pleasure or a task. It may be friend
Or open foe. It may be stranger, for, to you
Only the echo of the feet has come.
And so it is that echoes of old lives
Come to the soul the body shutters here—
Some footfall that belongs to other days
(Mayhap to cob-webbed centuries ago),
The sound of steps that spelt a certain doom;
The swift destroying of the conqueror,
Or Well-beloved, who, with flying feet
Passed on to something more than we could give.
Come to the soul the body shutters here—
Some footfall that belongs to other days
(Mayhap to cob-webbed centuries ago),
The sound of steps that spelt a certain doom;
The swift destroying of the conqueror,
Or Well-beloved, who, with flying feet
Passed on to something more than we could give.
Our brain house has so many corridors:
Our soul its secret gardens, primly walled,
Where riot roses or pale primal blooms
That scarce were dignified by name of flower;
Is it so wonderful, that some should keep
(All undisturbed by crowded Everydays)
The sound of other feet that paced with ours,
Where tapestries hung o'er forgotten stairs,
Through by-ways that were glad with violets,
Leaving a double impress on the dew,
Behind a postern gate whose key is lost?
Our soul its secret gardens, primly walled,
Where riot roses or pale primal blooms
That scarce were dignified by name of flower;
Is it so wonderful, that some should keep
(All undisturbed by crowded Everydays)
The sound of other feet that paced with ours,
Where tapestries hung o'er forgotten stairs,
Through by-ways that were glad with violets,
Leaving a double impress on the dew,
Behind a postern gate whose key is lost?
