THE CANDLES
Not one inch have the candles burned!
They are firmest wax, and the honey bees
Gave of their best to deck the sconces.
Why have the wicks been quenched in these?
For somebody lit them that I know
Barely a full-sped hour ago!
They are firmest wax, and the honey bees
Gave of their best to deck the sconces.
Why have the wicks been quenched in these?
For somebody lit them that I know
Barely a full-sped hour ago!
The saffron silks of the 'broidered curtain
Have found its fringe in the polished floor,
For the moon peers in at the lozenged window,
But no one knocks at the unlatched door—
Silence, shadows, with doom opprest,
And these wax accusers upon the chest!
Have found its fringe in the polished floor,
For the moon peers in at the lozenged window,
But no one knocks at the unlatched door—
Silence, shadows, with doom opprest,
And these wax accusers upon the chest!
A rosewood coffer with brass clamps gleaming
Over the fox-skins on the boards;
The carven chairs in a solemn circle,
The satin prie-Dieu with ravelled cords
That close to a suit of mail is set,
Gorget, morion, solleret.
Over the fox-skins on the boards;
The carven chairs in a solemn circle,
The satin prie-Dieu with ravelled cords
That close to a suit of mail is set,
Gorget, morion, solleret.
Does something lurk in 'the darkest corner?
Did something move in that blackest patch?
I should shriek if I heard across the chamber
The stealthy scrape of an unseen match.
Did something move in that blackest patch?
I should shriek if I heard across the chamber
The stealthy scrape of an unseen match.
