Behind the Arras | Page 6

loves by the door;?Then his blood begins to rouse, this Caliban I house,?And it's "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door.
In the dread lone of the night I can hear him snuff the sill; Then it's "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door;?His damned persistent bark, like a husky's in the dark,?His "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at the door.
I have tried to rid the house of the misbegotten spawn;?But he skulks like a shadow at my door,?With the same uncanny glee as when he came to me?With his first cry of wolf at my door.
I curse him, and he leers; I kick him, and he whines;?But he never leaves the stone at my door.?Peep of day or set of sun, his croaking's never done?Of the Red Wolf of Despair at my door.
But when the night is old, and the stars begin to fade,?And silence walks the path by my door,?Then is his dearest hour, his most unbridled power,?And low comes his "Wolf!" at the door.
I turn me in my sleep between the night and day,?While dreams throng the yard at my door.?In my strong soul aware of a grewsome terror there?Soon to knock with command at my door.
Is it the hollow voice of the census-taker Time?In his old idle round from door to door??Or only the north wind, when all the leaves are thinned,?Come at last with his moan to my door?
I cannot guess nor tell; only it comes and comes,?As from a vaster world beyond my door,?From centuries of eld, the death of freedom knelled,?A host of mortal fears at my door.
Then I wake; and joy and youth and fame and love and bliss, And all the good that ever passed my door,?Grow dim, and faint and fade, with the whole world unmade,?To perish as the summer at my door.
The crouching heart within me quails like a shuddering thing, As I turn on my pillow to the door;?Then in the chill white dawn, when life is half withdrawn,?Comes the dream-curdling "Wolf!" at my door.
Only my yellow dwarf; (my servitor and lord!)?I hear him lift the latch of my door;?I see his wobbling chin and his unrepentant grin,?As he lets his oafship in at the door.
He is low and humped and foul, and shambles like an ape;?And stealthily he barricades the door,?Then lays his goblin head against my lonely bed,?With a "Wolf, wolf, wolf," at the door!
I loathe him, but I feed him; I'll tell you how it was?(Hear him now with his "Wolf!" at the door!)?That I ever took him in; he is--he is my kin,?And kin to the wolf at the door!
I loathe him, yet he lives; as God lets Satan live,?I suffer him to slumber at my door,?Till that long-looked-for time, that splendid sudden prime, When Spring shall go in scarlet by my door.
That day I will arise, put my heel upon his throat,?And squirt his yellow blood upon the door;?Then watch him dying there, like a spider in his lair,?With a "Wolf, wolf, wolf!" at my door.
The great white morning sun shall walk the earth again,?And the children return to my door,?I shall hear their merry laugh, and forget my buried dwarf, As a tale that is told at the door.
Far from the quiet woods the gaunt red wolf shall flee,?As a cur that is stoned from the door;?And God's great peace come back along the lonely track,?To fill the golden year at my door.
_The Faithless Lover_
I
O Life, dear Life, in this fair house?Long since did I, it seems to me,?In some mysterious doleful way?Fall out of love with thee.
For, Life, thou art become a ghost,?A memory of days gone by,?A poor forsaken thing between?A heartache and a sigh.
And now, with shadows from the hills?Thronging the twilight, wraith on wraith,?Unlock the door and let me go?To thy dark rival Death!
II
O Heart, dear Heart, in this fair house?Why hast thou wearied and grown tired,?Between a morning and a night,?Of all thy soul desired?
Fond one, who cannot understand?Even these shadows on the floor,?Yet must be dreaming of dark loves?And joys beyond my door!
But I am beautiful past all?The timid tumult of thy mood,?And thou returning not must still?Be mine in solitude.
_The Crimson House_
Love built a crimson house,?I know it well,?That he might have a home?Wherein to dwell.
Poor Love that roved so far?And fared so ill,?Between the morning star?And the Hollow Hill,
Before he found the vale?Where he could bide,?With memory and oblivion?Side by side.
He took the silver dew?And the dun red clay,?And behold when he was through?How fair were they!
The braces of the sky?Were in its girth,?That it should feel no jar?Of the swinging earth;
That sun and wind might bleach?But not destroy?The house that he had builded?For his joy.
"Here will I stay," he said,?"And roam no more,?And dust when I am dead?Shall keep the door."
There trooping dreams by night?Go by, go by.?The