The Bluebeard Chambers of the Heart

Mould upon the ceiling,
Mould upon the floor,
Windows barred and double barred,
Opening nevermore;
Spiders in the corners,
Spiders on the shelves,
Weaving frail and endless webs
Back upon themselves;
Weaving, ever weaving,
Weaving in the gloom,
Till the drooping drapery
Trails about the room.
Waken not the echo,
Nor the bat, that clings
In the curious crevices
Of the pannelings.
Waken not the echo,
It will haunt your ear
Wall and ceiling whispering
Words you would not hear.
Hist! the spectres gather,
Gather in the dark,
Where a breath has brushed away
Dust from off a mark;
Dust of weary winters,
Dust of solemn years,
Dust that deepens in the silence,
As the minute wears.
On the shelf and wainscot,
Window-bars and wall,
Covering infinite devices,
With its stealthy fall.
Hist! the spectres gather,
Break, and group again.
Wreathing, writhing, gibbering
Round that fearful stain; —
Blood upon the panels,
Blood upon the floor,
Blood that baffles wear and washing,
Red for evermore.
See, — they pause and listen,
Where the bat that clings,
Stirs within the crevices
Of the pannelings.
See, — they pause and listen,
Listen through the air;
How the eager life has struggled,
That was taken there;
See, — they pause and listen,
Listen in the gloom;
For a startled breath is sighing,
Sighing through the room.
Sighing in the corners,
Sighing on the floor,
Sighing through the window-bars,
That open nevermore.
Waken not those whispers;
They will pain your ears;
Waken not the dust that deepens
Through the solemn years,—
Deepens in the silence,
Deepens in the dark;
Covering closer, as it gathers,
Many a fearful mark.
Hist! the spectres gather,
Break and group again,
Wreathing, writhing, gibbering,
Round that fearful stain:
Blood upon the panels,
Blood upon the floor,
Blood that baffles wear and washing,
Red for evermore.