THE INNER ROOM

It is mine — the little chamber,

Mine alone.

I had it from my forbears

Years agone.

Yet within its walls I see

A most motley company,

And they one and all claim me

As their own.

There's one who is a soldier

Bluff and keen;

Single-minded, heavy-fisted,

Rude of mien.

He would gain a purse or stake it,

He would win a heart or break it,

He would give a life or take it,

Conscience-clean.

And near him is a priest

Still schism-whole;

He loves the censer-reek

And organ-roll.

He has leanings to the mystic,

Sacramental, eucharistic;

And dim yearnings altruistic

Thrill his soul.

There's another who with doubts

Is overcast;

I think him younger brother

To the last.

Walking wary stride by stride,

Peering forwards anxious-eyed,

Since he learned to doubt his guide

In the past.

And‘ mid them all, alert,

But somewhat cowed,

There sits a stark-faced fellow,

Beetle-browed,

Whose black soul shrinks away

From a lawyer-ridden day,

And has thoughts he dare not say

Half avowed.

There are others who are sitting,

Grim as doom,

In the dim ill-boding shadow

Of my room.

Darkling figures, stern or quaint,

Now a savage, now a saint,

Showing fitfully and faint

Through the gloom.

And those shadows are so dense,

There may be

Many — very many — more

Than I see.

They are sitting day and night

Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;

And they wrangle and they fight

Over me.

If the stark-faced fellow win,

All is o'er!

If the priest should gain his will

I doubt no more!

But if each shall have his day,

I shall swing and I shall sway

In the same old weary way

As before.