And we shall have new peace in this our life, New joy to give more life, new bliss to live, Sure of our dead in the proud halls of death.
Hollow rang the house when I knocked at the door, And I lingered on the threshold with my hand Upraised to knock and knock once more: Listening for the sound of her feet across the floor, Hollow re-echoed my heart.
The low-hung lamps stretched down the road With shadows drifting underneath, With a music of soft, melodious feet Quickening my hope as I hastened to meet The low-hung light of her eyes.
The golden lamps down the street went out, The last car trailed the night behind, And I in the darkness wandered about With a flutter of hope and of dark-shut doubt In the dying lamp of my love.
Two brown ponies trotting slowly Stopped at the dim-lit trough to drink. The dark van drummed down the distance slowly, And city stars so high and holy Drew nearer to look in the streets.
A hasting car swept shameful past. I saw her hid in the shadow, I saw her step to the curb, and fast Run to the silent door, where last I had stood with my hand uplifted. She clung to the door in her haste to enter, Entered, and quickly cast It shut behind her, leaving the street aghast.
The pine trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter; While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede Winding about their dimness the mists' grey cerements, after The street-lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.
The leaves fly over the window and whisper a word as they pass To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two eyes of darkness That watch forever earnestly from behind the window glass.
I look at the swaling sunset And wish I could go also Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.
I wish that I could go Through the red doors where I could put off My shame like shoes in the porch My pain like garments, And leave my flesh discarded lying Like luggage of some departed traveller Gone one knows not where.
Then I would turn round And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber, I would laugh with joy.