Last night I found an old forgotten key
Deep in an unused drawer; and quick tears fell
As in my hand I took it tenderly—
For ah! I knew the story it would tell
Of a familiar door, a ‘vanished hand,’
A cheery ‘click’ by eager children heard—
‘Papa is home!’—Ah, little loyal band!
How oft your hearts grew sick with hope deferred
In the time after! for ‘Papa’ went forth
And came not back. Then dawned some darksome days:
The cottage home was sold; and we came north
To a gray city street, to flowerless ways.
On the bright steel, great spots of rust had grown—
‘It would not turn so easily as then’
(I thought), ‘and “Rosebank” is no more my own—
I have no claim to enter it again.
‘Maybe its door has now a different lock—
And oh, if even I could venture there,
What should I find? my misery to mock—
Ghosts of the dead—strangers’ careless stare.’
I took the key and laid it out of sight:
‘Since thou canst no more ope the door for me
Of that dear home, thou needst not see the light,
For only doors of tears are oped by thee.’