Goblins and Pagodas Part 3

Dust hangs clogged so thick The air has a dusty taste: Spider threads cling to my face, From the broad pine-beams.

There is nothing living here, The house below might be quite empty, No sound comes from it.

The old broken trunks and boxes, Cracked and dusty pictures, Legless chairs and shattered tables, Seem to be crying Softly in the stillness Because no one has brushed them.

No one has any use for them, now, Yet I often wonder If these things are really dead: If the old trunks never open Letting out grey flapping things at twilight?

If it is all as safe and dull As it seems?

Why then is the stair so steep, Why is the doorway always locked, Why does n.o.body ever come?

THE CALENDAR IN THE ATTIC

I wonder how long it has been Since this old calendar hung here, With my birthday date upon it, Nothing else--not a word of writing-- Not a mark of any hand.

Perhaps it was my father Who left it thus For me to see.

Perhaps my mother Smiled as she saw it; But in later years did not smile.

If I could tear it down, From the wall Somehow I would be content.

But I am afraid, as a little child, to touch it.

THE HOOPSKIRT

In the night when all are sleeping, Up here a tiny old dame comes tripping, Looking for her lost hoopskirt.

My great-grandaunt--I never saw her-- Her ghost doesn't know me from another, She stalks up the attic stairs angrily.

The dust sets her sneezing and coughing, By the trunk she is limping and hopping, But alas--the trunk is locked.

What's an old dame to do, anyway!

Must stay in a mouldy grave day on day, Or go to heaven out of style.

In the night when all are snoring, The old lady makes a dreadful clatter, Going down the attic stairs.

What was that? A ghost or a burglar?

Oh, it was only the wind in the chimney, Yes, and the attic door that slammed.

THE LITTLE CHAIR

I know not why, when I saw the little chair, I suddenly desired to sit in it.

I know not why, when I sat in the little chair, Everything changed, and life came back to me.

I am convinced no one at all has grown up in the house, The break that I dreamed, itself was a dream and is broken.

I will sit in the little chair and wait, Till the others come looking after me.

And if it is after nightfall they will come, So much the better.

For the little chair holds me as tightly as death; And rocking in it, I can hear it whisper strange things.

IN THE DARK CORNER

I brush the dust from this old portrait: Yes, it is the same face, exactly, Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate?

I brush the dust from a heap of magazines: Here there is all what you have written, All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for.

O G.o.d, to think what I am writing Will be ever as this!

O G.o.d, to think that my own face May some day glare from this dust!

THE TOY CABINET

By the old toy cabinet, I stand and turn over dusty things: Chessmen--card games--hoops and b.a.l.l.s-- Toy rifles, helmets, swords, In the far corner A doll's tea-set in a box.

Where are you, golden child, Who gave tea to your dolls and me?

The golden child is growing old, Further than Rome or Babylon From you have pa.s.sed those foolish years.

She lives--she suffers--she forgets.

By the old toy cabinet, I idly stand and awkwardly Finger the lock of the tea-set box.

What matter--why should I look inside, Perhaps it is empty after all!

Leave old things to the ghosts of old;

My stupid brain refuses thought, I am maddened with a desire to weep.

THE YARDSTICK

Yardstick that measured out so many miles of cloth, Yardstick that covered me, I wonder do you hop of nights Out to the still hill-cemetery, And up and down go measuring A clayey grave for me?

PART III. THE LAWN