Collected poems, 1901-1918 (Vol. 2)/The Phantom

by Walter de la Mare

THE PHANTOM

 
"UPSTAIRS in the large closet, child,
This side the blue room door,
Is an old Bible, bound in leather,
Standing upon the floor;

"Go with this taper, bring it me;
Carry it so, upon your arm;
It is the book on many a sea
Hath stilled the waves' alarm."
 
Late the hour, dark the night,
The house is solitary;
Feeble is a taper's light
To light poor Ann to see.

Her eyes are yet with visions bright
Of sylph and river, flower and fay,
Now through a narrow corridor
She goes her lonely way.

Vast shadows on the heedless walls
Gigantic loom, stoop low:
Each little hasty footfall calls
Hollowly to and fro.

In the cold solitude her heart
Remembers sorrowfully
White winters when her mother was
Her loving company.

Now in the dark clear glass she sees
A taper, mocking hers, —
A phantom face of light blue eyes,
Reflecting phantom fears.

Around her loom the vacant rooms,
Wind the upward stairs,
She climbs on into a loneliness
Only her taper shares.

Out in the dark a cold wind stirs,
At every window sighs;
A waning moon peers small and chill
From out the cloudy skies,

Casting faint tracery on the walls;
So stony still the house
From cellar to attic rings the shrill
Squeak of the hungry mouse.

Her grandmother is deaf with age;
A garden of moonless trees
Would answer not though she should cry
In anguish on her knees.

So that she scarce can breathe — so fast
Her pent up heart doth beat —
When, faint along the corridor,
Falleth the sound of feet: —

Sounds lighter than silk slippers make
Upon a ballroom floor, when sweet
Violin and 'cello wake
Music for twirling feet.

O! 'neath an old unfriendly roof,
What shapes may not conceal
Their faces in the open day,
At night abroad to steal?

Even her taper seems with fear
To languish small and blue;
Far in the woods the winter wind
Runs whistling through,

A dreadful cold plucks at each hair,
Her mouth is stretched to cry,
But sudden, with a gush of joy,
It narrows to a sigh.

It is a phantom child which comes
Soft through the corridor,
Singing an old forgotten song,
This ancient burden bore: —

"Thorn, thorn, I wis,
And roses twain,
A red rose and a white,
Stoop in the blossom, bee, and kiss
A lonely child good-night.

"Swim fish, sing bird,
And sigh again,
I that am lost am lone,
Bee in the blossom never stirred
Locks hid beneath a stone!" —

Her eye was of the azure fire
That hovers in wintry flame;
Her raiment wild and yellow as furze
That spouteth out the same;

And in her hand she bore no flower,
But on her head a wreath
Of faded flowers that did yet
Smell sweetly after death. . . .

Gloomy with night the listening walls
Are now that she is gone,
Albeit this solitary child
No longer seems alone.

Fast though her taper dwindles down,
Heavy and thick the tome,

A beauty beyond fear to dim
Haunts now her alien home.

Ghosts in the world, malignant, grim,
Vex many a wood and glen,
And house and pool — the unquiet ghosts
Of dead and restless men.

But in her grannie's house this spirit —
A child as lone as she —
Pining for love not found on earth,
Ann dreams again to see.

Seated upon her tapestry stool,
Her fairy-book laid by,
She gazes into the fire, knowing
She has sweet company.