The speaker is awake beside someone sunk in a deep, almost cold sleep. In the quiet house, the only movement is a mouse scratching in a cupboard. That small sound becomes huge to the speaker, turning their body into a “nervous haunted house.” The sleeper doesn’t stir. The speaker is caught between disbelief and unease: no sharper sound, not even lovely flute music, could wake the sleeper, yet the mouse’s furious scratching has the speaker entirely on edge. He almost pleads with the sleeper to hear it, then sees how unreachable that quiet body is. The mood is hushed, lonely, and tense. The scratching isn’t just a household nuisance; it feels like the restless, irritating anxieties that keep one person alert while someone nearby stays untouched. By the end, the speaker half-envies the sleeper’s oblivion and half-doubts it—because hearing that sound clearly might be unbearable.
The Mouse — Summary
Standing close by you In the cold light Of two tall candles That measure the dark of night, I hear the mouse, The only thing that's moving In the quiet house.
Don't you hear it, That furious mouse? How can you sleep so deep And that noise in the house? Won't you stir At the furious scratching In the cupboard there?
No! a sharper sound Would wake you not; Not the sweetest fluting Tease you back to thought. Yet the scratching mouse Makes all my flesh a nervous Haunted house.
O, the dream, the dream Must be sweet and deep If life's scratching's heard not On your cold sleep. Yet if you should hear it, So furious and fretful-- How could you bear it?