THE MOUSE

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.

Do n't you hear it,

That furious mouse?

How can you sleep so deep

And that noise in the house?

Wo n'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?