Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Elizabeth AkersAllen554 In a Garret
T
Within its drowsy shades are treasures rare
Of dust and dreams; the years are long since last
A stranger’s footfall pressed the creaking stair.
And here, like some strange presence, ever clings
A homesick smell of dry forgotten herbs,—
A musty odor as of mouldering things.
For fancied virtues prized in days of yore,
Gathered with thoughtful care, mayhap by those
Whose earthly ills are healed forever more.
And weaves her silken tapestry unseen,
Veiling the rough-hewn timbers overhead,
And looping gossamer festoons between.
Moth-eaten garments hang, a gloomy row,
Like tall fantastic ghosts, which stand aloof,
Holding grim converse with the long ago.
Old fairy-volumes, conned and conned again,
A cradle, and a heap of battered toys,
Once loved by babes who now are bearded men.
The yellow wasps come in, and buzz and build
Among the rafters; wind and snow and rain
All enter, as the seasons are fulfilled.
Old letters, stained and nibbled; faintly show
The faded phrases on the tattered folds
Once kissed, perhaps, or tear-wet—who may know?
And lo! love’s prophecies and sweet regrets,
A tress of chestnut hair, a love-lorn rhyme,
And fragrant dust that once was violets.
His winter nest between these time-stained beams,
Was happier that his bed was lined and draped
With the bright warp and woof of youthful dreams?
Shrouding from view the sunny world outside,
A golden bumblebee has blundered in
And lost the way to liberty, and died.
So the warm living heart, that loves the light,
Faints in the unresponsive darkness vast
Which hides time’s buried mysteries from sight.
Let the thick cobwebs hide the day once more;
Leave the dead years to silence and to dust,
And close again the long unopened door.