OPENING that we cannot find, Groping our way amid dark walls! There's light out yonder where the wind Singeth in thy chinks like one who calls. Well hid art thou, O Door! Locked and barred, and curtained o'er. A little postern through which men Can slip away, unheard, unseen. Thy bolts are drawn and closed again, And dark as they have ever been. The walls of time close round and round, Unpiercèd still by light or sound! |