Hazel Hall

Silence is the sound of footsteps Hushed upon a stair,

The fluttering of ruffled garments, A song's forgotten air —

All the old, forbidden echoes That quenched their fevers there.

Why do I think of stairways With a rush of hurt surprise? Wistful as forgotten love In remembered eyes;

And fitful as the flutter Of little draughts of air That linger on a stairway As though they loved it there.

New and shining stairways, Stairways worn and old, Where rooms are prison places And corridors are cold.

You intrigue with fancy. You challenge with a lore Elusive as a moon's light Shadowing a floor.

You speak to me not only With the lure of storied art — For wonder of old footsteps Lies lightly on my heart;

And more than the reminiscence Of yesterday's renown — Laughter that might have floated up, Echoes that should drift down.

I will make myself new thought; My own is worn and old. And old counterpanes will not Keep out the wind and cold.

From borrowed thought I will choose Pieces, and, row on row, Patch a quilt of many hues Like the quilts of long ago.

It cannot be so fine As what the years have thinned. But I dread the smothered whine Of four grey walls' grey wind.

I will patch me a counterpane. For mine is worn to scars. And I fear the iron rain Of a ceiling's splashing stars.

You — and you. Passer-by — and you; You, languid feet, and you, wild to climb, Seeking your respite or star-rimmed view. Where do you go down the streets of Time?

Never the same, yet ever the same — You and you, hurrying, slow. Crowding the way with your motley claim Of life, always you come and go.

You, stung with purpose. You, driven by Blindly before Creation's sweep. Are there ways for the searchers of stars on high? And other ways for the seekers of sleep?

Or only one way for all to run? ... Only one sound drifts up to me, The blend of every tread in one. Impersonal as the beat of the sea.

I am content with latticed sights: A lean grey bough, a frill Of filmy cloud, the shadow-lights Upon a window-sill.

I am content in wintered days With all my eyes may meet. April, when you dance down these ways Hush your awakening feet.

A ray of jonquils thrills the grey And frowning winter of a room . . .

Out from the depths of an old day A burst of spring-light cuts its way, Lifting the vague perfume Of walled-in gardens long, long dumb, Of blooms that never bloomed at all . . .

Then quickly, as autumn's keen winds come. Shadows, like dead leaves, fall.

A footstep sounded from the street . Listening, I knew of you! With the good singing of your feet You came in, too.

Companioned by the sun and rain. Mingling with the winds at will. You passed, but in your step's refrain I have you still.

A child with unmanageable feet Skips on the street below; The wind has invited her to race, The sun is a kiss upon her face And the world a great applauding place. I know . . .

She dances now with timid step, Light as new leaves blow. Her skirts are wings of butterflies, And with every feathery grace she tries Her feet cry out life's glad surprise . I know . . .