The Inn of the Five Chimneys

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A Funeral Phantasy
King Francis
Nadowessian Death-Lament
Round the sun
The Ring of Polycrates
The Secret
The Inn of the Five Chimneys
The Tunnel
The Battle of Gettysburg
Hymn of Pan
Bird thou
May morning
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Zabawki dla dzieci
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The clapboards, warped and gray, showed stains
Of more than an hundred autumn rains; No birds sang about the eaves,
Only the leaves, only the leaves,
Murmured in a minor weird MBT Sandals
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As though they shrank, as though they feared,--
Feared some blind, inscrutable thing,
And ever they kept on murmuring. Upon the window-panes the dust
Was caked and cracked like a wizened crust,-
- A grimy crust that none would touch Ug Boots
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Unless he felt gaunt famine's clutch.
Mould made dank and dark each door,
And every lintel and every floor
With the drifting silt of the years was deep; And shapes that crawl and writhe and creep
Traced strange arabesques over all.
It had five chimneys, had that Inn,
And rumor said it was soiled with sin!
Above, in the long low dancing-hall,
You could hear the death-watch in the wall,
A sound that seemed to jibe and mock Like the eerie tick of a ghostly clock.
In every corner and crevice hung Spider-tapestries that clung
To the crumbling mortar,--grim festoons;
And the wraith of ancient rigadoons
Floated faintly, as though unseen
Fiddlers fingered the chorded bow, And maskers, antic of garb and mien,
Flitted in sinuous to and fro.
It had five chimneys, had that Inn,
And rumor said it was soiled with sin!
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And every chamber, wide and bare,
Breathed on the dim and moated air Spectral echoings,--doubts and fears,
Hates and loves of the parted years;
And every hallway and every stair
Creaked and groaned with the gruesome tread
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Of those long silent, of those long dead,-- Youth, in its radiant rainbow guise;
Wrinkled Age, with its shrunken eyes; Honor, garbed in the mail of Trust;
Poverty, Riches and slinking Lust;

Into the vastnesses of night! It had five chimneys, had that Inn,
And rumor said it was soiled with sin!
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And so I left it standing still
And stark by the crossroads under the hill,
With its sagging roof and its rotting beams, And all of its tangled maze of dreams.
But it holds me, aye, it haunts me yet,
Like a hooded vision of Regret,
Though I fain would say to it, "Be gone!"
As to the night mists saith the dawn. And yet I needs must let it dwell
In memory till some happy spell
Shall bid it be invisible!
Come, healing spirit, and touch my soul,
And make it sweet and sane and whole!