The White Peacock

Go away!

Go away; I will not confess to you!

Is he there or is it intenser shadow?

Dark huddled coilings from the obscene depths,

Black, formless shadow,

Shadow.

Doors creak; from secret parts of the chateau come the scuffle and worry of rats.

Orange light drips from the guttering candles,

Eddying over the vast embroideries of the bed

Stirring the monstrous tapestries,

Retreating before the sable impending gloom of the canopy

With a swift thrust and sparkle of gold,

Lipping my hands,

Then

Rippling back abashed before the ominous silences

Like the swift turns and starts of an overpowered fencer

Who sees before him Horror

Behind him darkness,

Shadow.

The clock jars and strikes, a thin, sudden note like the sob of a child.

Clock, buhl clock that ticked out the tortuous hours of my birth,

Clock, evil, wizened dwarf of a clock, how many years of agony have you relentlessly measured,

Yardstick of my stifling shroud?

I am Aumaury de Montreuil; once quick, soon to be eaten of worms.

You hear, Father? Hsh, he is asleep in the night's cloak.

Over me too steals sleep.

Sleep like a white mist on the rotting paintings of cupids and gods on the ceiling;

Sleep on the carven shields and knots at the foot of the bed,

Oozing, blurring outlines, obliterating colors,

Death.

Father, Father, I must not sleep!

It does not hear — that shadow crouched in the corner...

Is it a shadow?

One might think so indeed, save for the calm face, yellow as wax,

That lifts like the face of a drowned man from the choking darkness.