The lamplit page is turned, the dream forgotten; <br />The music changes tone, you wake, remember <br />Deep worlds you lived before,—deep worlds hereafter <br />Of leaf on falling leaf, music on music, <br />Rain and sorrow and wind and dust and laughter. <br /> <br />Helen was late and Miriam came too soon. <br />Joseph was dead, his wife and children starving. <br />Elaine was married and soon to have a child. <br />You dreamed last night of fiddler-crabs with fiddles; <br />They played a buzzing melody, and you smiled. <br /> <br />To-morrow—what? And what of yesterday? <br />Through soundless labyrinths of dream you pass, <br />Through many doors to the one door of all. <br />Soon as it's opened we shall hear a music: <br />Or see a skeleton fall . . . <br /> <br />We walk with you. Where is it that you lead us? <br />We climb the muffled stairs beneath high lanterns. <br />We descend again. We grope through darkened cells. <br />You say: this darkness, here, will slowly kill me. <br />It creeps and weighs upon me . . . Is full of bells. <br /> <br />This is the thing remembered I would forget— <br />No matter where I go, how soft I tread, <br />This windy gesture menaces me with death. <br />Fatigue! it says, and points its finger at me; <br />Touches my throat and stops my breath. <br /> <br />My fans—my jewels—the portrait of my husband— <br />The torn certificate for my daughter's grave— <br />These are but mortal seconds in immortal time. <br />They brush me, fade away: like drops of water. <br />They signify no crime. <br /> <br />Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you: <br />Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you: <br />No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat. <br />Dreams—they are madness. Staring eyes—illusion. <br />Let us return, hear music, and forget . . .<br /><br />Conrad Potter Aiken<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-of-dust-part-03-03-haunted-chambers/
