How have I wandered here to this
vaulted room
In the
house of life? — the floor was ruffled with gold
Last evening, and she who was
softly in bloom,
Glimmered as flowers that in perfume at twilight
unfold
For the flush of the night; whereas
now the gloom
Of
every dirty, must-besprinkled mould,
And damp old web of misery’s
heirloom
Deadens
this day’s grey-dropping arras-fold.
And what is this that floats on the
undermist
Of the
mirror towards the dusty grate, as if feeling
Unsightly its way to the
warmth? — this thing with
a list
To the left? this ghost like a
candle swealing?
Pale-blurred, with two round black
drops, as if it
missed
Itself among everything else, here hungrily
stealing
Upon me! —
my own reflection! — explicit gist
Of my presence there in the mirror that leans
from
the ceiling!
Then will somebody square this shade
with the
being I know
I was last night, when my soul rang clear as a
bell
And happy as
rain in summer? Why should it be
so?
What is there gone against me,
why am I in hell?