IV
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ot in this chamber only at my birth--When the long hours of that mysterious nightWere over, and the morning was in sight--I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firthI have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;And never shall one room contain me quiteWho in so many rooms first saw the light,Child of all mothers, native of the earth. So is no warmth for me at any fireTo-day, when the world's fire has burned so low;I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,And straighten back in weariness, and longTo gather up my little gods and go. V If I should learn, in some quite casual way,That you were gone, not to return again--Read from the back-page of a paper, say,Held by a neighbor in a subway train,How at the corner of this avenueAnd such a street (so are the papers filled)A hurrying man--who happened to be you--At noon to-day had happened to be killed,I should not cry aloud--I could not cryAloud, or wring my hands in such a place--I should but watch the station lights rush byWith a more careful interest on my face,Or raise my eyes and read with greater careWhere to store furs and how to treat the hair. VI Bluebeard This door you might not open, and you did;So enter now, and see for what slight thingYou are betrayed. . . . Here is no treasure hid,No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroringThe sought-for truth, no heads of women slainFor greed like yours, no writhings of distress,But only what you see. . . . Look yet again--An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.Yet this alone out of my life I keptUnto myself, lest any know me quite;And you did so profane me when you creptUnto the threshold of this room to-nightThat I must never more behold your face.This now is yours. I seek another place.
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