The Inner Room

It is mine--the little chamber,     Mine alone.     I had it from my forbears     Years agone.     Yet within its walls I see     A most motley company,     And they one and all claim me     As their own.     There's one who is a soldier     Bluff and keen;     Single-minded, heavy-fisted,     Rude of mien.     He would gain a purse or stake it,     He would win a heart or break it,     He would give a life or take it,     Conscience-clean.     And near him is a priest     Still schism-whole;     He loves the censer-reek     And organ-roll.     He has leanings to the mystic,     Sacramental, eucharistic;     And dim yearnings altruistic     Thrill his soul.     There's another who with doubts     Is overcast;     I think him younger brother     To the last.     Walking wary stride by stride,     Peering forwards anxious-eyed,     Since he learned to doubt his guide     In the past.     And 'mid them all, alert,     But somewhat cowed,     There sits a stark-faced fellow,     Beetle-browed,     Whose black soul shrinks away     From a lawyer-ridden day,     And has thoughts he dare not say     Half avowed.     There are others who are sitting,     Grim as doom,     In the dim ill-boding shadow     Of my room.     Darkling figures, stern or quaint,     Now a savage, now a saint,     Showing fitfully and faint     Through the gloom.     And those shadows are so dense,     There may be     Many--very many--more     Than I see.     They are sitting day and night     Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;     And they wrangle and they fight     Over me.     If the stark-faced fellow win,     All is o'er!     If the priest should gain his will     I doubt no more!     But if each shall have his day,     I shall swing and I shall sway     In the same old weary way     As before.