Poems (Eckley)/The House of Shadows

by Sophia May Eckley

THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS.

P the long bewildering street—
 Called after the month of May,
A street of ancient Palaces,
 Carved fronts of sombrous grey;
With deep low groinèd arch-ways,
 Dripping with damp and steam,
And sickly scent of sultry breath,
 From summer's feverish dream.

'Twas there I walked the fiery pave,
 That seemed to scorch my feet,
Tho' cold at heart, I hastened on
 To the last house in the street.

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My heart had threaded that street before,
 Had entered that gloomy door,
Faltered climbing each stony step—
 All I had traversed before.

But darker, darker now it grew,
 And yet tho' 'twas day without,
Darkness of soul crept over me,
 And I could not drive it out.

I rang at the door, and waited,—
 Oft I had waited before,
Rang again—does no one answer?
 'Tis open—open the door;
Where was the hand that raised the latch?
 Retreated? Aye as of old;
Too well they knew who was coming,
 And went back to the tasks they hold.

Into the rooms then I wandered,
 All silent, desolate, lone,
But there stood her chair and her table—
 Alas! the spirit had flown.
I invoked each dear one by name,
 An answer came on the air,—
"This is the House of Shadows,
 What hast thou to do here?"

I heard the laugh of the children,
 Rustling of garments wind-blown,
Saw leaves of the books turn over,
 The journal just read thrown down;
Then sate on the cushioned divan,
 Gazed on the tapestried wall,
Read listless the titles of books
 Through mist of tears that would fall;

There mused till the twilight entered,
 Drew shadow leaves faint on the floor,
And folded the thirsty petals
 Of lily and madrigore,
That swooned in pots on the terrace,
 Begrimed with dust of the street:
Forgotten, neglected, they also
 Struck down by summer's fierce heat.

Anon the monks began chanting
 Their Avé at dusky day;
I knew it was time to be going
 To my home just over the way.
Only one moment I lingered,
 To watch the moon from that room,
Climb over the Pitti's turret,
 Throw an arrow on the gloom.

Not long on the terrace I lingered,
 Turning bewildered, aghast,—
Empty, echoing, were the rooms
 Through which my steps had just passed.
Not even a fragment of arras
 Hung from the bald blank wall,
Nor a bit of ancient carving—
 Bare, carpetless, desolate all!

Shadowy feet seemed to follow me;
 Hark to a shutting door!
I paused, looked backward to listen,
 That sound I had heard before.
Well I knew the click of the latch,
 Too well I recalled that sound;
It opened a chamber of memory,
 Into a silence profound.

I went to that room and entered,
 Then closed the door after me;
A flood of tears drown'd the shadows—
 These shadows so haunting me.
The moon her last arrow shivered,
 And flung it down on the floor,
And a strain of heav'nly music
 Burst through the closéd door.

At length my sad dream was over,
 My sorrow these shadows had cast—
I would not now back recall her,
 That wish is for ever past;
Though still the Palace is standing,
 And the shadows inmates there—
I heard that deep sobbing of music,
 Yet herself has no shadow there.

All, all then had been but phantoms,
 Sad dream of departed hours;
Memories, pictures, fancies,
 Now faded like summer flow'rs.
Yet they held me long in possession,
 Ev'n now entangle my steps,
Though I fled from the House of Shadows,
 With silence upon my lips.

Florence; Nov., 1861.