Prologue
The house that I write of, faces the north: No sun ever seeks Its six white columns, The nine great windows of its face.
It fronts foursquare the winds.
Under the penthouse of the veranda roof, The upper northern rooms Gloom outwards mournfully.
Staring Ionic capitals Peer in them: Owl-like faces.
On winter nights The wind, sidling round the corner, Shoots upwards With laughter.
The windows rattle as if some one were in them wishing to get out And ride upon the wind.
Doors lead to nowhere: Squirrels burrow between the walls. Closets in every room hang open, Windows are stared into by uncivil ancient trees.
In the middle of the upper hallway There is a great circular hole Going up to the attic. A wooden lid covers it.
All over the house there is a sense of futility; Of minutes dragging slowly And repeating Some worn-out story of broken effort and desire.