Turned sharply in my mind to sudden pity, And pity to echoed love. And one more evening Drew to the usual end of sleep and silence. And, as it is with this, so too with all things. The pages of our lives are blurred palimpsest: New lines are wreathed on old lines half-erased, And those on older still; and so forever. The old shines through the new, and colors it. What's new? What's old? All things have double meanings,-- All things return. I write a line with passion (Or touch a woman's hand, or plumb a doctrine) Only to find the same thing, done before,-- Only to know the same thing comes to-morrow. . . . This curious riddled dream I dreamed last night,-- Six years ago I dreamed it just as now; The same man stooped to me; we rose from darkness, And broke the accustomed order of our days, And struck for the morning world, and warmth, and freedom. . . . What does it mean? Why is this hint repeated? What darkness does it spring from, seek to end? You see me, then, pass up and down these stairways, Now through a beam of light, and now through shadow,-- Pursuing silent ends. No rest there is,-- No more for me than you. I move here always, From quiet room to room, from wall to wall, Searching and plotting, weaving a web of days. This is my house, and now, perhaps, you know me. . . Yet I confess, for all my best intentions, Once more I have deceived you. . . . I withhold The one thing precious, the one dark thing that guides me; And I have spread two snares for you, of lies. IV. COUNTERPOINT: TWO ROOMS He, in the room above, grown old and tired, She, in the room below--his floor her ceiling-- Pursue their separate dreams. He turns his light, And throws himself on the bed, face down, in laughter. . . . She, by the window, smiles at a starlight night, His watch--the same he has heard these cycles of ages-- Wearily chimes at seconds beneath his pillow. The clock, upon her mantelpiece, strikes nine. The night wears on. She hears dull steps above her. The world whirs on. . . . New stars come up to shine. His youth--far off--he sees it brightly walking In a golden cloud. . . . Wings flashing about it. . . . Darkness Walls it around with dripping enormous walls. Old age--far off--her death--what do they matter? Down the smooth purple night a streaked star falls. She hears slow steps in the street--they chime like music; They climb to her heart, they break and flower in beauty, Along her veins they glisten and ring and burn. . . . He hears his own slow steps tread down to silence. Far off they pass. He knows they will never return.