Classic Poem

Sidelong the Bird ran,
Hard-eyed on the turned mould:
Was door and window wide?
—Then Heart grew kettle-cold.

Might no wind-suckt curtain
Dim that travelling Eye?
Could Door's thick benediction
Deafen, if he should cry?

Sidelong the Bird crept
Into the stark door:
His yellow, lidless eye!
Foot chill to the stone floor!

Then Smoke, that slender baby,
To Hearth's white Niobe-breast
Sank trembling—dead. Oh Bird,
Bird, spare the rest!

He has bidden bats to flit
In Window's wide mouth:
Starlings to tumble, and mock
Poor Pot's old rusty drouth:

And a wet canker, nip
Those round-breasted stones
That I hugged to strong walls
With the love of my strained bones.

He bad lank Spider run,
Grow busy, web me out
With dusty trespass stretcht
From mantel to kettle-spout.

Door, Window, Rafter, Chimney,
Grow silent, die:
All are dead: all moulder:
Sole banished mourner I.

See how the Past rustles
Stirring to life again …
Three whole years left I lockt
Behind that window-pane.