Oracles

THE HOUSE II3 Into a pageant of triumphant shapes. So, as the night grows deeper, and no moon Stirs the black heaven, no star its cloud escapes, I sit and watch the fire : my musing drapes My soul in darker dreams ; the storm’s wild tune Rolls ever deeper in my shuddering swoon : Whereat I start, shudder, and pull together My mind. Why, surely it must be the hour ! My friend is coming through the wet wild weather Across the moor’s inhospitable heather To the old stately tower—my own dear tower. He will not fail me for a sudden shower ! My friend ! How often have I longed to see Again his gallant figure and that face Radiant—how long ago we parted !—we The dearest friends that ever were ! Ah me ! I curse even now that hateful parting-place. But now—he comes ! How glad I am ! Apace Fly the glad minutes—There he is at last ! I know the firm foot on the marble floor. The hour-glass turns ! What miseries to cast For ever to the limbo of the past ! He knocks—my friend ! O joy for evermore ! He calls ! “ Open the door ! Open the door ! ”