Lost manor where I walk continually

A ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood.

Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers

And gliding steadfast down your corridors

I come by nightly custom to this room,

And even on sultry afternoons I come

Drawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.

Empty, unless for a huge bed of state

Shrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry

(A puppet theatre where malignant fancy

Peoples the wings with fear). At my right hand

A ravelled bell-pull hangs in readiness

To summon me from attic glooms above

Service of elder ghosts; here at my left

A sullen pier-glass cracked from side to side

Scorns to present the face as do new mirrors

With a lying flush, but shows it melancholy

And pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.

Is here no life, nothing but the thin shadow

And blank foreboding, never a wainscote rat

Rasping a crust? Or at the window pane

No fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?

The windows frame a prospect of cold skies

Half-merged with sea, as at the first creation,

Abstract, confusing welter. Face about,

Peer rather in the glass once more, take note

Of self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled,

Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ's love

A rumour, scarcely yet to be reckoned sound,

But a pulse quicker or slower, then I know

My plea is granted; death prevails not yet.

For bees have swarmed behind in a close place

Pent up between this glass and the outer wall.

The combs are founded, the queen rules her court,

Bee-serjeants posted at the entrance chink

Are sampling each returning honey-cargo

With scrutinizing mouth and commentary,

Slow approbation, quick dissatisfaction.

Disquieting rhythm, that leads me home at last

From labyrinthine wandering. This new mood

Of judgment orders me my present duty,

To face again a problem strongly solved

In life gone by, but now again proposed

Out of due time for fresh deliberation.

Did not my answer please the Master's ear?

Yet, I'll stay obstinate. How went the question,

A paltry question set on the elements

Of love and the wronged lover's obligation?

Kill or forgive? Still does the bed ooze blood?

Let it drip down till every floor-plank rot!

Yet shall I answer, challenging the judgment:—

"Kill, strike the blow again, spite what shall come."

"Kill, strike, again, again," the bees in chorus hum.