The Pier-Glass

Lost manor where I walk continually     A ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood;     Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers     And gliding steadfast down your corridors     I come by nightly custom to this room,     And even on sultry afternoons I come     Drawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.     Empty, unless for a huge bed of state     Shrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry     (A puppet theatre where malignant fancy     Peoples the wings with fear). At my right hand     A ravelled bell-pull hangs in readiness     To summon me from attic glooms above     Service of elder ghosts; here at my left     A sullen pier-glass cracked from side to side     Scorns to present the face as do new mirrors     With a lying flush, but shows it melancholy     And pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.     Is here no life, nothing but the thin shadow     And blank foreboding, never a wainscot rat     Rasping a crust? Or at the window pane     No fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?     The windows frame a prospect of cold skies     Half-merged with sea, as at the first creation,     Abstract, confusing welter. Face about,     Peer rather in the glass once more, take note     Of self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled,     Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ's love     Give me one token that there still abides     Remote, beyond this island mystery,     So be it only this side Hope, somewhere,     In streams, on sun-warm mountain pasturage,     True life, natural breath; not this phantasma.     A rumour, scarcely yet to be reckoned sound,     But a pulse quicker or slower, then I know     My plea is granted; death prevails not yet.     For bees have swarmed behind in a close place     Pent up between this glass and the outer wall.     The combs are founded, the queen rules her court,     Bee-sergeants posted at the entrance-chink     Are sampling each returning honey-cargo     With scrutinizing mouth and commentary,     Slow approbation, quick dissatisfaction,     Disquieting rhythm, that leads me home at last     From labyrinthine wandering. This new mood     Of judgment orders me my present duty,     To face again a problem strongly solved     In life gone by, but now again proposed     Out of due time for fresh deliberation.     Did not my answer please the Master's ear?     Yet, I'll stay obstinate. How went the question,     A paltry question set on the elements     Of love and the wronged lover's obligation?     Kill or forgive? Still does the bed ooze blood?     Let it drip down till every floor-plank rot!     Yet shall I answer, challenging the judgment:     'Kill, strike the blow again, spite what shall come.'     'Kill, strike, again, again,' the bees in chorus hum.