sleepy still back stairs, It watches, shut and still. THE CELLAR Faintly lit by a high-barred grating, The low/hung cellar, Flattens itself under the house. In one corner There is a little door, So low, it can scarcely be seen. Beyond, There is a narrow room, One must feel for the walls in the dark. One shrinks to go To the end of it, Feeling the smooth cold wall. Why did the builders who made this house, Stow one room away like this? THE FRONT DOOR It was always the place where our farewells were taken, When we travelled to the north. I remember there was one who made some journey, But did not come back. Many years they waited for him, At last the one who wished the most to see him, Was carried out of this selfsame door in death. Since then all our family partings Have been at another door. 

 PART II. THE ATTIC IN THE ATTIC Dust hangs clogged so thick The air has a dusty taste: Spider threads cling to my face, From the broad pine-beams. There is nothing living here, The house below might be quite empty, No sound comes from it. The old broken trunks and boxes, Cracked and dusty pictures, Legless chairs and shattered tables, Seem to be crying Softly in the stillness Because no one has brushed them. No one has any use for them, now, Yet I often wonder If these things are really dead: If the old trunks never open Letting out grey flapping things at twilight? If it is all as safe and dull As it seems? Why then is the stair so steep, Why is the doorway always locked, Why does nobody ever come? THE CALENDAR IN THE ATTIC I wonder how long it has been Since this old calendar hung here, With my birthday date upon it, Nothing else—not a word of writing— Not a mark of any hand. Perhaps it was my father Who left it thus For me to see. Perhaps my mother Smiled as she saw it; But in later years did not smile. If I could tear it down, From the wall Somehow I would be content. But I am afraid, as a little child, to touch it. THE HOOPSKIRT In the night when all are sleeping, Up here a tiny old dame comes tripping, Looking for her lost hoopskirt. My great-grandaunt—I never saw her— Her ghost doesn't know me from another, She stalks up the attic stairs angrily. The dust sets her sneezing and coughing, By the trunk she is limping and hopping, But alas—the trunk is locked. What's an old dame to do, anyway! Must stay in a mouldy grave day on day, Or go to heaven out of style. In the night when all are snoring, The old lady makes a dreadful clatter, Going down the attic stairs. What was that? A ghost or a burglar? Oh, it was only the wind in the chimney, Yes, and the attic door that slammed. THE LITTLE CHAIR I know not why, when I saw the little chair, I suddenly desired to sit in 

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