Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
FateHarold Monro
Examined all this well-known room
That I inhabit.
There the locked door, the door I cannot open,
The only doorway.
I bend and listen, I can always hear
A muffled conversation.
An angry endless argument of people
Who live behind;
Now dimly to their separate conflict moving
Behind the door.
As I, in this lone room that I inhabit:
My life; my body.
You who once made me and who now discuss me,
Tell me your verdict, and I will obey it!
With doubting hands and eager trembling fingers,
Prepared my room.
Each gave his token for remembrance, brought it,
And then retired behind the bolted door.
One left, and there the jar of vinegar
On the same table.
Shining beside the flask of yellow wine?
Who sighed so softly?
Who groaned, that I can ever hear the echo?
You do not answer.
Sounds penetrate of building other houses:
Men building houses.
Some day I’ll find some doorway in the wall—
What shall I take them?
Beyond those doorways, in the other rooms?
What shall I bring them,
That they may love me?
For all the jangling voices rise together;
I seem to hear:
Beyond their closed door there’s no final answer.
They are debating.
Than voices in a muffled room?
Why do you live behind your door,
And hide yourself in angry gloom?
One purpose only, one sole word,
Ringing forever round my heart,
Plainly delivered, plainly heard?
And tortures all my life, and yet
Gives no result. I often think
You’ve grown so old that you forget;
Of talking, talking, talking still,
You’re tired of definite design,
And laugh at having lost your will.