Classic Poem

How witless to assail the carven halls
Of memory! To climb the high stone steps,
Picking a foothold through the crisp, dry leaves
Whirled in the corners, crunching under foot
Those scattered in the centre, to clap at doors
With battered hauberk, till some seneschal,
Drowsy with age and oversleeping, creaks
Them open an inhospitable inch,
And, grumbling, lets himself be pushed aside
By a determined entrance! Where's the sense
Of striding by tarnished furniture from one
Mournful deserted chamber to another,
Seeking for roses in a vase of dust,
For tapestries where rusty armour hangs,
For blithe allurement under spider-spun
Ceilings corroded to a dripping ash?
What can you find here? A little powdered dust
To pinch up with your finger and your thumb
And fasten in a knotted handkerchief!
Look from the window, Friend, the sky is blue,
The leafless trees blow to a merry wind,
Your horse is tethered at the stairway's foot,
He twitches at the skipping of the leaves.
Pocket your handkerchief and ride away.
Was the trip worth while? I'll wager guinea gold
Within a week you'll wish you had not come,
And send your handkerchief knotted to the wash.
Life's the great cynic, and there's an end of that.