The Watchers

Here in this room there is no light of day,
Only dim light of funeral lamps is shed
Upon my past, that lies here still and dead;
Only Love hears the words I have to say;
Only he, watching, sees the gifts I lay —
Sad gifts, indeed — upon the silent bed.
Down distant passages I hear the tread
Of feet that from this chamber keep away.

Here sit we, I and Love, and keep one troth;
Nor will I quit my sacred past at all.
Till Death in his good time my name shall call.
Then shall one equal darkness cover both;
Then of this chamber shall Love seal the door,
That, being closed, shall open never more.