Poems (Argent)/The Closed Gate

by Alice Emily Argent

For works with similar titles, see The Closed Gate.

THE CLOSED GATE.

 

CONTRIBUTED TO "GREAT THOUGHTS."

BROAD the terrace is and stately, Arched with trees on either side,Beauteous elms that wave sedately In their summer leaves of pride:But the entrance gate is closedAs if death in life reposed.

I can see a garden lying In the distance dim and fair,I can hear the breezes sighing Melancholy music there.

Old worn griffins, stony-hearted, With a grin sit on the gate,Evil forms of the departed— Cold and grim and desolate.

And they guard, as if for ever Those unlifted hinges old,Staring sentinels that never Will their mystery unfold.

There are statues in the shadows, In gray grandeur standing lone,Gazing mutely o'er green meadows Where bright buttercups are blown.

And through peering long and surely, Marble fountains I can see,Where white crystal waters purely Move in mystic melody.

Who lives there beyond the gables Of that house so calm and still?Folks do speak in old wives' fables Of that house below the hill.

And they say a poor mad lady Paces idly on the walk,In and out the grottoes shady With a strange fantastic talk.

And her hair is downward streaming, Unconfined by net or pin,Floating with the wondrous gleaming Of the gold that lies within.

And her eyes have all the sorrow Of a poor dumb creature's pain,For to her no kind to-morrow Brings her reason back again.

I have lingered in the gloaming But I never heard a sound,Save those poor tired feet a-roaming Lonely o'er the garden ground.

All unearthly seems the stillness Brooding over every thing,Like a place where heavy sickness Hangs a dark and sable wing!

Fascination leads me thither, For a spell about is castRound me as I wander hither Haunted by a shadowy past.

But I light not on the lady Stricken sorely unto death,In that garden still and shady, Standing with suspended breath.

"Never see her? 'Tis a story, And a myth," I hear you say.Not so, friends; that house so hoary Holds the truth of what I say:Where the entrance gate is closedAs if Death in Life reposed!