  Door, little door, Shadowed door in the innermost room of my heart, I lean and listen, withdrawn from the stir and apart, For a word of the wordless love. And still you hide, Yourself of me, who are more than myself, within, And I wait if perchance a whisper I may win From my soul on the other side. What do I catch Afloat on the air, for something is said or done? Are there two who speak—my soul and the nameless One? Little door, could I lift the latch. Sigh for some want Measureless sigh of desire, or a speechless prayer? Rustle of robe of a priest at sacrifice there Benediction or far-heard chaunt? Could we but meet, Myself and my hidden self in a still amaze! But the tramp of men comes up, and the roll of drays, And a woman’s cry from the street! |
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