The cubbyhole I lie in is a box Of candied orange-peel. Soiled by hotel rooms till I reach the morgue That's not for me, I feel. Out of pure superstition I have come And settled here once more. The wallpaper is brown as any oak, And there's a singing door. I kept one hand upon the latch, you tried To fight free of the nets, And forelock touched enchanted forelock, and Then lips touched violets. O softy, in the name of times long gone, You play the old encore: Your costume like a primrose chirps "hello" To April as before. It's wrong to think-you are no Vestal: you Brought in a chair one day, Stood on it, took my life down from the shelf And blew the dust away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN HOSPITAL: 23. MUSIC by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY BETROTHED ANEW by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN IO VICTIS by WILLIAM WETMORE STORY PARRHASIUS by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS; A LEGEND OF BLOIS by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: LEAFLESS HOURS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |