Tuesday, September 24, 2013


Along this stillness steals their ghostly laughter:
The oaths they swore, the clamant song and jest,
Are haunting still each oaken beam and rafter,
That looked on many a gay, forgotten guest.
The clink of cups, the muffled clang of swords,
These, and the flapping cards, will not be stilled,
Though dust has spread the long-abandoned boards,
And hides at last the crimson wine they spilled.

And still, they say, on sullen nights of rain,
A passer-by may hear, beyond the door,
An old accounting for this ugly stain
That makes an evil pattern on the floor--
A sound of dice--an oath--a crashing chair ...
And sudden, grievous silence fallen there.

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