Page:The city of dreadful night - and other poems (IA cityofdreadfulni00thomrich).pdf/84

 His face was pale to give one fear, His eyes when lifted looked too bright; He muttered; what, I could not hear: Bad words though; something was not right.

The table said, He wrote so long That I grew weary of his weight; The pen kept up a cricket song, It ran and ran at such a rate: And in the longer pauses he With both his folded arms downpressed, And stared as one who does not see, Or sank his head upon his breast.

The fire-grate said, I am as cold As if I never had a blaze; The few dead cinders here I hold, I held unburned for days and days. Last night he made them flare; but still What good did all his writing do? Among my ashes curl and thrill Thin ghosts of all those papers too.