House of falling leaves with other poems / William Braithwaite [electronic text]

IN THE ATHENAEUM LOOKING OUT ON THE GRANARY BURYING GROUND ON A RAINY DAY IN NOVEMBER

HERE in this ancient, dusty room Filled with the rain-washed chill and gloom, The wistful books stand 'round in hosts — Familiar friends of forgotten ghosts Who sleep in their narrow beds below When daylight walks, and by them go The unremembering city throng. Here where dust and silence belong I feel their presence in each nook As if they too would stand and look With me, out where the motley city lies, With timid, unrecollecting eyes.

I feel the damp creep round my heart Because my thoughts have grown a part Of the infinite, ancient sense of pain Echoing voices in the rain. How long its unassuaging cry Has filled man's memory with a sigh When wind and rain among bare trees Has made even joy feel ill at ease! Joy! —where that tortuous winding coil Of slaves to duty, sweat and toil — Does joy dwell there? this monotone Of rain is far more dumb of groan.

How old the world is —yet I think No man has yet had his full drink Of joy, while life flowed in his veins Or disillusion racked his brains. How like a picture shadow-bound, That street is 'cross the burial ground! And from this room those forms out there Are not so real as ghosts in here.