Page:Poems Tree.djvu/117

The flaring tinsel lights of shop and window
Are gaps of goblin darkness passaging
Into Cimmerian depths of mystery and sin. . . .
Wan children stare at me, and in their eyes
I see the flickering pallor of the lamps,
Reflective of the solitude of stars. . . .
And I am thrilled
With horror and the hope for tragedies. . . .

But, they surround my heart these weary streets,
Yea, in my soul they cut their mournful paths,
And through them pass forever
Those shadow figures trudging through the grey
Like penitent souls through haunted corridors. . . .
Ah, Grief, thou wanderer,
Thou maker of music, lingering and sweet!
Here dost thou pause to play thy shrill faint tunes,
Thy fingers touch the stops to loose our tears,
And shake our hearts, and fold our hands in prayer.
Through all the winding mazes of the city
Thy stooping shoulders and thy pitiful face are seen,
And thou dost stand before the gate of brass,
And by the iron door,
Under the windows where we sit and wait
For some sweet promise to unfold itself
From the shut scrolls of sleep,
And at the dusty curtain that divides
Glory from Death,
And lover from the lover. . . .

Now in my room I sit
And round me falls the darkness
In rustling folds of peace.
But round my heart I know
No scarves of sleep and silence can be bound
To shut the city out.

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