Classic Poem

A PRIM old room where memories stir
Through faded chintz and wall-paper,
Like bees along the lavender
Of some dim border;
Bay-windowed, whence at close of day
You see the roosty starlings sway
High on the elm-tree's topmost spray
In gossip order.

In its quaint realm how soon one slips
Back to the age of treasure-ships,
The atmosphere of cowboy-trips
And boundless prairies;
And when the red logs fret and fume
(They're lit to-night to air the room)
Here come a tip-toe in the gloom
Old nursery fairies.

Here come dear ghosts to him who sees —
Fat ghosts of long digested teas,
Thin little ghosts of " saying please, "
Big ghosts of birthdays,
And sundry honorable sprites
To whisper those foredone delights
Of hallowe'ens and stocking-nights
And other mirth-days.

Its walls are full of musics drawn
From twitterings in the eaves at dawn,
From swish of scythe on summer lawn,
From Shetlands pawing
The gravel by the front-door yew,
And, wind-tossed from the avenue,
Fugues of first February blue
And rooks a-cawing.

Old room, the years have galloped on,
The days that danced, the hours that shone
Have turned their backs on you and gone
By ways that harden;
But you — in you their gold and myrrh
And frankincense of dreams still stir
Like bees that haunt the lavender
Of some walled garden!