“ Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.
Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir
The hangings of unhaunted passages;
Until she surely knows only for her
Has this House hoarded up its silences
Since the beginning of the early years,
And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease
And grow forgetful of its ancient fears
In some long-kept, unviolated room.
And so the quiet city no more hears
Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.
But what have I to do with her and death
Who hold these living grasses in my hands,—
With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth? ”

“ Are not less impotent than all the sea!
My soul at last its ultimate house hath won,
And in that house shall sleep along with me.
Yea, we shall slumber softly, out of the sun,
To day and night alike indifferent,
Aware and unaware if Time be done.
Yet ere I go, ere yet your faith be spent,
For our old love I pass Earth's message on:
"In me, why shouldst thou not find thy content? ”

“ Strange oils and perfumes strained in Indian vales,
Great gleaming rubies torn from some queen's hair,
Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust,
Deeming that I would find their offerings fair.
—O fairness quick to fade! Ashes and rust
And food for moths! O half-remembered things
Once altar-set!—I think when one is thrust
Far down in the under-world, where the worm clings
Close to the newly-dead, among the dead
Not one awakes to ask what gift she brings.
The color of her eyes, her hair outspread
In the moist wind that stifles ere it blows,
Falls on unwatching eyes ”