it. I know not why, when I sat in the little chair, Everything changed, and life came back to me. I am convinced no one at all has grown up in the house, The break that I dreamed, itself was a dream and is broken. I will sit in the little chair and wait, Till the others come looking after me. And if it is after nightfall they will come, So much the better. For the little chair holds me as tightly as death; And rocking in it, I can hear it whisper strange things. IN THE DARK CORNER I brush the dust from this old portrait: Yes, it is the same face, exactly, Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate? I brush the dust from a heap of magazines: Here there is all what you have written, All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for. O God, to think what I am writing Will be ever as this! O God, to think that my own face May some day glare from this dust! THE TOY CABINET By the old toy cabinet, I stand and turn over dusty things: Chessmen—card games—hoops and balls— Toy rifles, helmets, swords, In the far corner A doll's tea-set in a box. Where are you, golden child, Who gave tea to your dolls and me? The golden child is growing old, Further than Rome or Babylon From you have passed those foolish years. She lives—she suffers—she forgets. By the old toy cabinet, I idly stand and awkwardly Finger the lock of the tea-set box. What matter—why should I look inside, Perhaps it is empty after all! Leave old things to the ghosts of old; My stupid brain refuses thought, I am maddened with a desire to weep. THE YARDSTICK Yardstick that measured out so many miles of cloth, Yardstick that covered me, I wonder do you hop of nights Out to the still hill-cemetery, And up and down go measuring A clayey grave for me? 

 PART III. THE LAWN THE THREE OAKS There are three ancient oaks, That grow near to each other. They lift their branches High as beckoning With outstretched arms, For some one to come and stand Under the canopy of their leaves. Once long ago I remember As I lay in the very centre, Between them: A rotten branch suddenly fell Near to me. I will not go back to those oaks: Their branches are too black for my liking. AN OAK Hoar mistletoe Hangs in clumps To the twisted boughs Of this lonely tree. Beneath its roots I often thought treasure was buried: For the roots had enclosed a circle. But when I dug beneath them, I could only find great black ants That attacked my hands. When at night I have the nightmare, I always see the eyes of ants Swarming from a mouldering box of gold. ANOTHER OAK Poison ivy crawls at its root, I dare not approach it, It has an air of hate. One would say a man had been hanged to its branches, It holds them in 

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