John Gould Fletcher

The clump of jessamine Softly beneath the rain Rocks its golden flowers.

In this room my father died: His bed is in the corner. No one has slept in it Since the morning when he wakened To meet death's hands at his heart. I cannot go to this room, Without feeling something big and angry Waiting for me To throw me on the bed, And press its thumbs in my throat.

The clump of jessamine Without, beneath the rain, Rocks its golden flowers.

I wonder how long it has been Since this old calendar hung here, With my birthday date upon it, Nothing else--not a word of writing-- Not a mark of any hand.

Perhaps it was my father Who left it thus For me to see.

Perhaps my mother Smiled as she saw it; But in later years did not smile. If I could tear it down, From the wall Somehow I would be content. But I am afraid, as a little child, to touch it.

I know not why, when I saw the little chair, I suddenly desired to sit in it.

I know not why, when I sat in the little chair, Everything changed, and life came back to me.

I am convinced no one at all has grown up in the house, The break that I dreamed, itself was a dream and is broken.

I will sit in the little chair and wait, Till the others come looking after me.

And if it is after nightfall they will come, So much the better.

For the little chair holds me as tightly as death; And rocking in it, I can hear it whisper strange things.

I brush the dust from this old portrait: Yes, it is the same face, exactly, Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate?

I brush the dust from a heap of magazines: Here there is all what you have written, All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for.

O God, to think what I am writing Will be ever as this!

O God, to think that my own face May some day glare from this dust!

By the old toy cabinet, I stand and turn over dusty things: Chessmen--card games--hoops and balls-- Toy rifles, helmets, swords, In the far corner A doll's tea-set in a box.

Where are you, golden child, Who gave tea to your dolls and me? The golden child is growing old, Further than Rome or Babylon From you have passed those foolish years. She lives--she suffers--she forgets.

By the old toy cabinet, I idly stand and awkwardly Finger the lock of the tea-set box. What matter--why should I look inside, Perhaps it is empty after all! Leave old things to the ghosts of old;

My stupid brain refuses thought, I am maddened with a desire to weep.

Yardstick that measured out so many miles of cloth, Yardstick that covered me, I wonder do you hop of nights Out to the still hill-cemetery, And up and down go measuring A clayey grave for me?

There are three ancient oaks, That grow near to each other.

They lift their branches High as beckoning With outstretched arms, For some one to come and stand Under the canopy of their leaves.

Once long ago I remember As I lay in the very centre, Between them: A rotten branch suddenly fell Near to me.

I will not go back to those oaks: Their branches are too black for my liking.

Hoar mistletoe Hangs in clumps To the twisted boughs Of this lonely tree.

Beneath its roots I often thought treasure was buried: For the roots had enclosed a circle.

But when I dug beneath them, I could only find great black ants That attacked my hands.

When at night I have the nightmare, I always see the eyes of ants Swarming from a mouldering box of gold.