  Y You chide me that with self-absorbed, rapt eyes I seem to walk apart, nor care to clasp Familiar hands once dear; like one whose house Filled with the guests of her own choosing, rings With sounds of gladness, yet who steals away Up to some silent chamber of her own, Forgetful of the duties of a host. But is not she The truest and most hospitable friend Who, noting suddenly among her guests An unexpected comer, one to whom She fain would show high honor and respect, Hastens away with busy feet awhile To throw wide open to the sun and air Some long-untenanted fair chamber, rich With storied heirlooms of her ancestors, Bright with long windows looking towards the sun, Waiting but for an occupant? Even so Have I but stolen quietly away, Within the happy silence of my heart A lovely, sunny chamber to prepare |
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