Preface to an Occasion

How witless to assail the carven hallsOf memory! To climb the high stone steps,Picking a foothold through the crisp, dry leavesWhirled in the corners, crunching under footThose scattered in the centre, to clap at doorsWith battered hauberk, till some seneschal,Drowsy with om and oversleeping, creaksThem open an inhospitable inch,And, grumbling, lets himself be pushed asideBy a determined entrance! Where's the senseOf striding by tarnished furniture from oneMournful deserted chamber to another,Seeking for roses in a vase of dust,For tapestries where rusty armour hangs,For blithe allurement under spider-spunCeilings corroded to a dripping ash?What can you find here? A little powdered dustTo pinch up with your finger and your thumbAnd fasten in a knotted handkerchief!Look from the window, Friend, the sky is blue,The leafless trees blow to a merry wind,Your horse is tethered at the stairway's foot,He twitches at the skipping of the leaves.Pocket your handkerchief and ride away.Was the trip worth while? I'll wager guinea goldWithin a week you'll wish you had not come,And send your handkerchief knotted to the wash.Life's the great cynic, and there's an end of that.