Their raw equipments, scenes, and says Afflicted its memoried face, That had seen every larger phase Of human ways Before these filled the place. To them that house’s tale is theirs, No former voices call Aloud therein. Its aspect bears Their joys and cares Alone, from wall to wall. A PROCESSION OF DEAD DAYS I SEE the ghost of a perished day; I know his face, and the feel of his dawn: ’Twas he who took me far away To a spot strange and gray: Look at me, Day, and then pass on, But come again: yes, come anon! Enters another into view; His features are not cold or white, But rosy as a vein seen through: Too soon he smiles adieu. Adieu, O ghost-day of delight; But come and grace my dying sight. Enters the day that brought the kiss: He brought it in his foggy hand To where the mumbling river is, And the high clematis; It lent new colour to the land, And all the boy within me manned. Ah, this one. Yes, I know his name, He is the day that wrought a shine Even on a precinct common and tame, As ’twere of purposed aim. He shows him as a rainbow sign Of promise made to me and mine. The next stands forth in his morning clothes, And yet, despite their misty blue, They mark no sombre custom-growths That joyous living loathes, But a meteor act, that left in its queue A train of sparks my lifetime through. I almost tremble at his nod— This next in train—who looks at me As I were slave, and he were god Wielding an iron rod. I close my eyes; yet still is he In front there, looking mastery. In the similitude of a nurse The phantom of the next one comes: I did not know what better or worse Chancings might bless or curse When his original glossed the thrums Of ivy, bringing that which numbs. Yes; trees were turning in their sleep Upon their windy pillows of gray When he stole in. Silent his creep On the grassed eastern steep . . . I shall not soon forget that day, And what his third hour took away! HE FOLLOWS HIMSELF IN a heavy time I dogged myself Along a louring way, Till my leading self to my following self Said: “Why do you hang on me So harassingly?” “I have watched you, Heart of mine,” I cried, “So often going astray And leaving me, that I have pursued, Feeling such truancy Ought not to be.” He said no more, and I dogged him on From noon to the dun of day By prowling paths, until anew He begged: “Please turn and flee!— What do you see?” “Methinks I see a man,” said I, “Dimming his hours to gray. I will not leave him while I know Part of myself is he Who dreams such dree!”