Poems (Forrest)/Footfalls

by Mabel Forrest

FOOTFALLS

As on a velvet midnight, in a houseSilent and shuttered, all its life withdrawnThrough the dark windows, one can faintly hearA muffled footfall passing down the street;And knowing nothing of the one who walksIs conscious yet that some one wakes and movesIntent upon a pleasure or a task. It may be friendOr open foe. It may be stranger, for, to youOnly the echo of the feet has come.

And so it is that echoes of old livesCome 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 feetPassed 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 bloomsThat 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?