Stairways

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.