Sidelong the Bird ran,
Hard-eyed on the turned mould:
Was door--window--wide?
--Then Heart grew kettle-cold.
Might no wind-suckt curtain
Dim that travelling Eye?
Could Door's thick benediction
Deafen: if he should cry?
Sidelong the Bird crept
Into the stark door:
His yellow, lidless eye!
Foot chill to the stone floor!
... Then Smoke, that slender baby,
To Hearth's white Niobe-breast
Sank trembling--dead. Oh Bird,
Bird, spare the rest!
* * * * *
He has bidden bats to flit
In Window's wide mouth:
Starlings to tumble, and mock
Poor Pot's old rusty drouth:
And a wet canker, nip
Those round-breasted stones
That I hugged to strong walls
With the love of my strained bones.
He bad lank Spider run,
Grow busy, web me out
With dusty trespass stretcht
From mantel to kettle-spout.
Door, Window, Rafter, Chimney,
Grow silent, die:
All are dead: all moulder:
Sole banished mourner I.
See how the Past rustles
Stirring to life again ...
Three whole years left I lockt
Behind that window-pane.