As in some dim baronial hall restrained,
  A prisoner sits, engirt by secret doors
  And waving tapestries that argue forth
  Strange passages into the outer air;
  So in this dimmer room which we call life,
  Thus sits the soul and marks with eye intent
  That mystic curtain o’er the portal death;
  Still deeming that behind the arras lies
  The lambent way that leads to lasting light. 
  Poor fooled and foolish soul!  Know now that death
  Is but a blind, false door that nowhere leads,
  And gives no hope of exit final, free.

WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES

  In the forenoon’s restful quiet,
    When the boys are off at school,
  When the window lights are shaded
    And the chimney-corner cool,
  Then the old man seeks his armchair,
    Lights his pipe and settles back;
  Falls a-dreaming as he draws it
    Till the smoke-wreaths gather black.

  And the tear-drops come a-trickling
    Down his cheeks, a silver flow—­
  Smoke or memories you wonder,
    But you never ask him,—­no;
  For there ’s something almost sacred
    To the other family folks
  In those moods of silent dreaming
    When the old man smokes.

  Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming
    Of the love of other days
  And of how he used to lead her
   Through the merry dance’s maze;
  How he called her “little princess,”
    And, to please her, used to twine
  Tender wreaths to crown her tresses,
    From the “matrimony vine.”

  Then before his mental vision
    Comes, perhaps, a sadder day,
  When they left his little princess
    Sleeping with her fellow clay. 
  How his young heart throbbed, and pained him! 
    Why, the memory of it chokes! 
  Is it of these things he ’s thinking
    When the old man smokes?

  But some brighter thoughts possess him,
    For the tears are dried the while. 
  And the old, worn face is wrinkled
    In a reminiscent smile,
  From the middle of the forehead
    To the feebly trembling lip,
  At some ancient prank remembered
    Or some long unheard-of quip.

  Then the lips relax their tension
    And the pipe begins to slide,
  Till in little clouds of ashes,
    It falls softly at his side;
  And his head bends low and lower
    Till his chin lies on his breast,
  And he sits in peaceful slumber
    Like a little child at rest.

  Dear old man, there ’s something sad’ning,
    In these dreamy moods of yours,
  Since the present proves so fleeting,
    All the past for you endures. 
  Weeping at forgotten sorrows,
    Smiling at forgotten jokes;
  Life epitomized in minutes,
    When the old man smokes.

THE GARRET

  Within a London garret high,
  Above the roofs and near the sky,
  My ill-rewarding pen I ply
      To win me bread. 
  This little chamber, six by four,
  Is castle, study, den, and more,—­
  Altho’ no carpet decks the floor,
      Nor down, the bed.