The Lodging House
WHEN up the fretful, creaking stair,
From floor to floor
I creep
On tiptoe, lest I wake from their first beauty-sleep
The unknown lodgers lying, layer on layer,
In the packed house from roof to basement
Behind each landings unseen door;
The well-known steps are strangely steep,
And the old stairway seems to soar,
For my amazement
Hung in air,
Flight on flight
Through pitchy night,
Evermore and evermore.
And when at last I stand outside
My garret-door I hardly dare
To open it,
Lest, when I fling it wide,
With candle lit
And reading in my only chair,
I find myself already there . . .
And so must crawl down the sheer black pit
Of hell’s own stair,
Past lodgers sleeping layer on layer,
To seek a home I know not where.
