 | Orchids |  |
I
ON THE FOURTH FLOOR
Four papered walls that once perhaps were white
In some dark backward and abysm of time,
Where rubbed-out flowers indefinitely climb
Towards a cobwebbed ceiling black as night;
A tipsy table shaking in affright
Beneath its load of blotted prose and rhyme,
And then the small cracked window dim with grime
That lets in draughts more easily than light;
The mournful ghosts of two unhappy chairs,
And O a lamp that infinitely smells!
This, with a tenor-singer's daylong yells
And noisy footsteps on the creaking stairs,
This, high among the chimneys and the dome
Of London's fogs and rain-clouds—this is home!
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