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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE KNOCKING AT THE DOOR, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The falling snow, like grief for one just dead
Last Line: Ah, do you hear the knocking at the door?
Subject(s): God; Grief; Life; Sin; Sorrow; Sadness


THE falling snow, like grief for one just dead,
Stills on the road Life's noisy cavalcade.
The winding-sheets of memory by the breeze
Are scarcely lifted. In the garden freeze
The fountain's fallen jets. It is the hour
Of fearful night; no watch-dog's bark is bayed
Across the farms, whose lights are quenched in shade.
The village maids have left their busy looms
And, chaste, before the Virgin having prayed
For trivial sins, are sleeping in their rooms.

Now sinks the flame; now shrinks my hope's bright flower;
Alone I watch of all the slaves of sleep
With eyes that fear to see the red dawn creep,
So much my pain my mind doth overpower.
A sword and lance are glittering on the wall,
Vain arms for me, whose valour dreams can wrest.
The cup is drained that sped the parting guest
And stifling snows drift o'er the when and whence
And dead, with rousing my indifference,
The clock sleeps on, oblivious to my thrall.

Ah, do you hear the knocking at the door?

Perchance it is my comrades come once more
To call with song the bookworm from his books,
My friends with lanterns from the neighbouring inn,
Whose windowed mirth the hamlet overlooks.
Ah, do they come with snowy coats, akin
To mantles of the swains of Bethlehem,
With holly branches in their tingling hands,
To deck my shuttered window, which withstands
With jealous sill the dreams I now contemn?

If they are friends they shall not quit the street
To tread my quiet with tumultuous feet,
For thou, my soul, hast done with song and dance
And night-beguiling mirth of violins.
The vigil o'er the funeral urn begins
Where cricket's chirp alone wins sufferance.
Let them be gone with all their futile joy
That chafes the hands and stamps the feet in snow!
Let nought my lone and silent watch annoy
Or cheat me of my visions. Let them go!

Ah, do you hear the knocking at the door?

They are, perhaps, lean stragglers from the corps
Of vagabonds, whose knives gleam in the air,
With shoes agape and hats that mask the eyes,
Who wait to take the traveller unaware,
Trembling before each sign-post he espies;
Thieves, haply, who at midnight leave their lair
To take the dregs of wine and crusts of bread
From timid dame and bowed, decrepit sire,
Who see the breath from chink and lock suspire
Yet fear to call the watchman in their dread.

If it be they I shall relight the fire
To warm these homeless beings at my hearth
And open to their hunger and their thirst;
Break bread for them and pour the heartening wine
Till butts are void and bins no food confine.
Then shall I say: "Leave now to his desire
The friend who succoured you and whose hot tears
Fall for your travail 'neath a mad God's ire;
And, if the banquet of his bounty cheers,
Leave at his porch some flowers when spring appears."

Ah, do you hear the knocking at the door?

What if 'tis He, Who, vested all in white,
As shepherd leads the innumerable poor,
Babes, halt and maimed, wights lacking wits and sight,
Come now to lead me up the winding way
Unto the sungirt city of the soul?
I see His peace stream from His aureole;
The lightnings of His hands reveal heaven's day
While, fain to kiss His robe, the masses sway.

Yet who could say if now they sang or wept
-- So glad the song, so sad the eyes that slept!
Ah, if 'tis He, my staff then will I take,
Scrip for my hunger, flagon for my thirst;
Nor shall the snows my palmer's sandals stay
Whenas I follow in salvation's wake
With multitudes that press toward paradise,
Rejoicing in my soul no more accursed
The while celestial wonders are dispersed
Calling the live to doom; the dead to rise;
Destroying to re-build the towers that nod,
Whereon shall float the oriflammes of God.

Ah, do you hear the knocking at the door?





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