The speaker stands in a neglected attic where dust thickens the air and cobwebs cling to the skin. Broken trunks, cracked pictures, legless chairs, and shattered tables sit forgotten, and in the stillness they almost seem to be crying because no one touches them anymore. At first the mood is sad and lonely, as if the objects mourn their own uselessness. But then the speaker’s thoughts turn darker, wondering whether these things are truly dead or whether the old trunks might open at twilight and release grey flapping shapes. The final questions deepen the unease: why is the stair so steep, why is the door always locked, why does nobody ever come? The attic feels less like storage and more like a forbidden place. The overall mood is eerie, quiet, and full of suspense.
In the Attic — Summary
Dust hangs clogged so thick The air has a dusty taste: Spider threads cling to my face, From the broad pine-beams. There is nothing living here, The house below might be quite empty, No sound comes from it. The old broken trunks and boxes, Cracked and dusty pictures, Legless chairs and shattered tables, Seem to be crying Softly in the stillness Because no one has brushed them. No one has any use for them, now, Yet I often wonder If these things are really dead: If the old trunks never open Letting out grey flapping things at twilight? If it is all as safe and dull As it seems?
Why then is the stair so steep, Why is the doorway always locked, Why does nobody ever come?