Floor of a Room

The walls and windows of my room,
With stolid constancy
Spreading checkered light or gloom,
Belong to me.

Of all my room the floor alone
Is not my own.

Days, like armfuls of fresh flowers
Slowly . . . I scatter there;
Yet for my offering of hours
I may share

Only the cold, disquiet rest
Of a passing guest.

Always I must waive my rights
To feet, who, strange and still,
Press their claims on windy nights;
And not until

I come again, another ghost,
Shall I be host.