An Upper Chamber In A Darkened House
An upper chamber in a darkened house,
Where, ere his footsteps reached ripe manhood's brink,
Terror and anguish were his cup to drink,-
I cannot rid the thought, nor hold it close;
But dimly dream upon that man alone;-
Now though the autumn clouds most softly pass;
The cricket chides beneath the doorstep stone,
And greener than the season grows the grass.
Nor can I drop my lids, nor shade my brows,
But there he stands beside the lifted sash;
And with a swooning of the heart, I think
Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs,
And-shattered on the roof like smallest snows-
The tiny petals of the mountain-ash.