 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
213
THE HOUSE OF NIGHT
It had been raining all that night;
And now the mists were everywhere:
They wrapped the house from roof to stair,
And glimmered phantom faces white
At every window: wild of hair
They streamed around me in the light,
That found me standing on the stair.
And now the mists were everywhere:
They wrapped the house from roof to stair,
And glimmered phantom faces white
At every window: wild of hair
They streamed around me in the light,
That found me standing on the stair.
The lonely hills were all around;
The ancient house loomed out alone;
So gray, that he, who had not known,
Beholding it from higher ground,
Had sworn it was of mist, not stone;
So vague it was, so shadow-drowned,
So gray and still, and dim, unknown.
The ancient house loomed out alone;
So gray, that he, who had not known,
Beholding it from higher ground,
Had sworn it was of mist, not stone;
So vague it was, so shadow-drowned,
So gray and still, and dim, unknown.
My cap and cloak were beaded gray
With wisps of rain that gleamed like sleet;
If anyone had chanced to meet
My dripping form, I dare to say
No phantom in a winding sheet
Had filled his heart with more dismay,
As when the dead and living meet.
With wisps of rain that gleamed like sleet;
If anyone had chanced to meet
My dripping form, I dare to say
No phantom in a winding sheet
Had filled his heart with more dismay,
As when the dead and living meet.
The forest I had paced till dawn
Was like a false heart filled with fear;
Its darkness threatened at my ear
And ever held a weapon drawn,
Waiting to strike; now with a sneer
Regarding me; now urging on
With menaced murder at my ear.
Was like a false heart filled with fear;
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And ever held a weapon drawn,
Waiting to strike; now with a sneer
Regarding me; now urging on
With menaced murder at my ear.
It hurled its roots like ropes across
My path; and from each humpback tree
Spat black its rain, in spite, at me;
And dragged its toad-life from the moss
To croak contempt and obloquy;
And now and then its limbs it'd toss
And strike a serpent-fang at me.
My path; and from each humpback tree
Spat black its rain, in spite, at me;
And dragged its toad-life from the moss
To croak contempt and obloquy;
And now and then its limbs it'd toss
And strike a serpent-fang at me.
This was not all: Its outrage leered
Monstrosities in fungoid forms
From toadstool faces: twisted arms
Of mistletoe, that, gesturing, jeered:
Its hate laid nets for me in swarms
Of webs, blindfolding sight, that bleared
Each path that flung out spider arms.
Monstrosities in fungoid forms
From toadstool faces: twisted arms
Of mistletoe, that, gesturing, jeered:
Its hate laid nets for me in swarms
Of webs, blindfolding sight, that bleared
Each path that flung out spider arms.
Yet I had won through all, and come
To this gray house of mist at last:
This ancient manse, with which was cast
My lot of life and all its sum,
Piled with the records of the past;
That stared upon me, dark and dumb,
As on a soul of God outcast.
To this gray house of mist at last:
This ancient manse, with which was cast
My lot of life and all its sum,
Piled with the records of the past;
That stared upon me, dark and dumb,
As on a soul of God outcast.
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Or as one gazes on the dead
Whom he has hated for some sin.—
And yet I too must enter in
This house that night inhabited,
This house of mist, made closest kin
With all my dreams.—I felt no dread,
But struck the door, and entered in.
Whom he has hated for some sin.—
And yet I too must enter in
This house that night inhabited,
This house of mist, made closest kin
With all my dreams.—I felt no dread,
But struck the door, and entered in.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |