In the Carlyle House, Chelsea
Up the steep stair they clatter to each room,
In whispered merriment they pierce the gloom
Of Time’s sweet mercy, who with his grey sheet
Did seek in vain to stay their restless feet.
Their peeping eyes and prying fingers’ thrust
Disturb Death’s shroud and wanton in the dust.
Here, swift as hawks that scenting from on high
Some quiv’ring morsel leave the smiling sky,
They pounce on these old letters 'neath the glass,
Swooping to look, they linger loth to pass;
From this sad reading rise to arbitrate
The secret of domestic love or hate;
And with some heat discuss when they surprise
Some tender message meant for other eyes.
Grey beard, young cheek, they linger long to look.
His pipe! his bed! his pencil! or his book!
Her picture! purse! with laughter some one sees
The little basket for her household keys.
Those keys, which should that mistress hand arise
Would shut this sanctum from these prying eyes,
And double-lock the secret of this hearth
From hyperbolic cant and noxious mirth.
And I, who passed in pleased experiment
To leave no nook unsought, but eager went
In this ghost-haunted house without a fear,
Pricked every shadow lest it hide a tear.
Laughed in that room built by a builder’s skill
To circle silence. Let my pulses thrill
To know ‘here did he stand where my foot falls
And spoke to that great world shut from these walls.’
And I, who went all eager as the rest,
Joined in their curious prying or their jest,
Grew soon aweary—or perhaps ashamed—
Leaned to the window—found a picture framed
So sweet, so sudden! that my pulses knew
How sad the haunted place I had come through.
So quick they leaped to meet this gentle sight,
A little maid with tresses plaited bright
Within a neighbour’s garden planting seeds
Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds,
With fond maternal air a place she found
And laid her precious bulbs within the ground.
And this the picture that within my heart
I do encourage most to hold a part
In all that’s treasured of remembered ways
Which memory brings in solitary days.
Nor shall I dream of this old house, nor go
In through its silent shadows to and fro
To praise the genius that once sheltered here,
Or for love’s disillusion drop a tear.
Nor ponder by the letters 'neath the glass,
But to the open casement quick shall pass.
There from the house of what has been to gaze
On Spring, on love, on youth, on hope, who plays
Within the neighbour’s garden sowing seeds.
Intent, demure, she pulled the unsightly weeds,
And with a quaint maternal air she found
Place for her golden bulbs within the ground.
