Classic Poem

Who sits within the house and spins and spins
A web of silence, louder than a sound,
And spinning, stares? The rainy sunset thins
Along the rooms; a bluster of wind pants round
The yard and back again. Its leaves all shed,
Sags the wet lilac hedge, in half-lit airs,
Like strip of long-drenched leather, worn to thread:
Who sits within this house and stares and stares?
Some secret's here. Softly I pace the floor,
For fear that of a sudden it may be known; —
That footsteps may fleet out each hoarded place,
Some strange dark hand come fumbling at the door,
That aged thing, who spins and spins alone,
Rush out upon me with a pale, drowned face!