Where a faint light shines alone, <br />Dwells a Demon I have known. <br />Most of you had better say <br />"The Dark House," and go your way. <br />Do not wonder if I stay. <br /> <br />For I know the Demon's eyes <br />And their lure that never dies. <br />Banish all your fond alarms, <br />For I know the foiling charms <br />Of her eyes and of her arms, <br /> <br />And I know that in one room <br />Burns a lamp as in a tomb; <br />And I see the shadow glide, <br />Back and forth, of one denied <br />Power to find herself outside. <br /> <br />There he is who was my friend, <br />Damned, he fancies, to the end-- <br />Vanquished, ever since a door <br />Closed, he thought, for evermore <br />On the life that was before. <br /> <br />And the friend who knows him best <br />Sees him as he sees the rest <br />Who are striving to be wise <br />While a Demon's arms and eyes <br />Hold them as a web would flies. <br /> <br />All the words of all the world, <br />Aimed together, and then hurled, <br />Would be stiller in his ears <br />Than a closing of still shears <br />On a thread made out of years. <br /> <br />But there lives another sound, <br />More compelling, more profound; <br />There's a music, so it seems, <br />That assuages and redeems, <br />More than reason, more than dreams. <br /> <br />There's a music yet unheard <br />By the creature of the word, <br />Though it matters little more <br />Than a wave-wash on the shore-- <br />Till a Demon shuts a door. <br /> <br />So, if he be very still <br />With his Demon, and one will, <br />Murmurs of it may be blown <br />To my friend who is alone <br />In a room that I have known. <br /> <br />After that from everywhere <br />Singing life will find him there; <br />And my friend, again outside, <br />Will be living, having died.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dark-house-2/
