Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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.
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