Behind the Arras | Page 7

walls are rosy white?In the sun's eye.
The windows are more clear?Than sky or sea;?He made them after God's?Transparency.
It is a dearer place?Than kirk or inn;?Such joy on joy as there?Has never been.
There may my longed-for rest?And welcome be,?When Love himself unbars?The door for me!
[Illustration]
_The Lodger_
I cannot quite recall?When first he came,?So reticent and tall,?With his eyes of flame.
The neighbors used to say?(They know so much!)?He looked to them half way?Spanish or Dutch.
Outlandish certainly?He is--and queer!?He has been lodged with me?This thirty year;
All the while (it seems absurd!)?We hardly have?Exchanged a single word.?Mum as the grave!
Minds only his own affairs,?Goes out and in,?And keeps himself upstairs?With his violin.
Mum did I say? And yet?That talking smile?You never can forget,?Is all the while
Full of such sweet reproofs?The darkest day,?Like morning on the roofs?In flush of May.
Like autumn on the hills;?At four o'clock?The sun like a herdsman spills?For drove and flock
Peace with their provender,?And they are fed.?The day without a stir?Lies warm and red.
Ah, sir, the summer land?For me! That is?Like living in God's hand,?Compared to this.
His smile so quiet and deep?Reminds me of it.?I see it in my sleep,?And so I love it.
An anarchist, say some;?But tush, say I,?When a man's heart is plumb,?Can his life be awry?
Better than charity?And bigger too,?That heart. You've seen the sea??Of course. To you
'T is common enough, no doubt.?But here in town,?With God's world all shut out,?Save the leaden frown
Of the sky, a slant of rain,?And a straggling star,?Such memories remain?The wonders they are.
Once at the Isles of Shoals,?And it was June . . .?Now hear me dote! He strolls?Across my noon,
Like the sun that day, where sleeps?My soul; his gaze?Goes glimmering down my deeps?Of yesterdays,
Searching and searching, till?Its light consumes?The reluctant shapes that fill?Those purple glooms.
Let others applaud, defame,?And the noise die down;?His voice saying your name,?Is enough renown.
Too patient pitiful,?Too fierce at wrong,?To patronize the dull,?Or praise the strong.
And yet he has a soul?Of wrath, though pent?Even when that white ghoul?Comes for his rent.
The landlord? Hush! My God!?I think the walls?Take notes to help him prod?Us up. He galls
My very soul to strife,?With his death's-head face.?He is foul too in his life,?Some hid disgrace,
Some secret thing he does,?I warrant you,?For all his cheek to us?Is shaved so blue.
He takes good care (by the shade?Of seven wives!)?That the undertaker's trade?He lives by thrives.
Nor chick nor child has he.?So servile smug,?With that cringe in his knee,--?God curse his lug!
But him, you should have seen?Him yesterday;?The landlord's smirk turned green?At his smile. The way
He served that bloodless fish,?Were like to freeze him.?But meeting elsewhere, pish!?He never sees him.
Yet such a gentleman,?So sure and slow.?The vilest harridan?Is not too low,
If there is pity's need;?And no man born,?For cruelty or greed?Escapes that scorn.
Most of all things, it seems,?He loves the town.?Watching the bright-faced streams?Go up and down,
I have surprised him often?On Tremont street,?And marked the grave face soften,?The mouth grow sweet,
In a brown study over?The men and women.?An unsuspected rover?That, for our Common.
When the first jonquils come,?And spring is sold?On the street corners, some?Of the pretty gold
Is sure to find its way?Home in his hand.?And many a winter day?At some cab-stand,
He'll watch the cabmen feed?The pigeon flocks,?Or bid some liner speed?From the icy docks.
His rooms? I much regret?You cannot see?His rooms, but they were let?With guarantee
Of his seclusion there--?Except myself.?Each morning, table, chair,?Lamp, hearth, and shelf,
I rearrange, refreshen,?Put all to rights,?Then leave him in possession.?Ah, but the nights,
The nights! Sir, if I dared?But once set eye?To keyhole, nor be scared,?From playing Paul Pry,
I doubt not I should learn?A wondrous thing?Or two; and in return?Go blind till spring.
The light under his door?Is glory enough,?It outshines any star?That I know of.
Wirrah, my lad, my lad,?'T is fearsome strange,?The hints we all have had?Passing the range
Of science, knowledge, law,?Or what you will,?Whose intangible touch of awe?Makes reason nil.
Many a night I start,?Sudden awake,?Feeling my smothered heart?Flutter and quake;
Like an aspen at dead of noon,?When not a breath?Is stirring to trouble the boon?Valley. A wraith
Or a fetch, it must be, shivers?The soul of the tree?Till every leaf of it quivers.?And so with me.
Was it the shuffle of feet?I heard go by,?With muffled drums in the street??Was it the cry
Of a rider riding the night?Into ashes and dawn,?With news in his nostrils and fright?Where his hoof-beats had gone?
Did the pipes, at "Bonny Dundee,"?Bid regiments form??Did a renegade's soul get free?On a wail of the storm?
Did a flock of wild geese honk?As they cleared the hill??Or only a bittern cronk,?Then all was still?
Was it a night stampede?Of a thousand head??I know I shook like a reed?There on my bed.
Nameless and void and wild?Was the fear before me,?Ere I bethought me and smiled?As the truth flashed o'er me.
Of course, it was only his hand?Freeing the bass?Of his old Amati, grand?In the silence' face.
Rummaging up and down,?From string