He is living only in the past, his life a succession of dreams.

Lastly, all things fade out into absolute grey, and it is now midwinter. Looking forth on the world again he still sees war, like a monstrous red flower, dominating mankind. He hears the souls of the dead declaring that they, too, have died for an adventure, even as he is about to die.

Such, in the briefest possible analysis, is the meaning of the poems contained in this book.

January, 1916.

CONTENTS

 SECTION I. THE GHOSTS OF AN OLD HOUSE PROLOGUE PART I. THE HOUSE Bedroom Library Indian Skull Old Nursery The Back Stairs The Wall Cabinet The Cellar The Front Door PART II. THE ATTIC In the Attic The Calendar in the Attic The Hoopskirt The Little Chair In the Dark Corner The Toy Cabinet The Yardstick PART III. THE LAWN The Three Oaks An Oak Another Oak The Old Barn The Well The Trees Vision Epilogue SECTION II. SYMPHONIES BLUE SYMPHONY SOLITUDE IN THE CITY (SYMPHONY IN BLACK AND GOLD)  I. Words at Midnight II. The Evening Rain III. Street of Sorrows IV. Song in the Darkness GREEN SYMPHONY GOLDEN SYMPHONY WHITE SYMPHONY MIDSUMMER DREAMS (SYMPHONY IN WHITE AND BLUE)  ORANGE SYMPHONY RED SYMPHONY VIOLET SYMPHONY GREY SYMPHONY POPPIES OF THE RED YEAR (A SYMPHONY IN SCARLET) 

SECTION I

THE GHOSTS OF AN OLD HOUSE

 PROLOGUE The house that I write of, faces the north: No sun ever seeks Its six white columns, The nine great windows of its face. It fronts foursquare the winds. Under the penthouse of the veranda roof, The upper northern rooms Gloom outwards mournfully. Staring Ionic capitals Peer in them: Owl-like faces. On winter nights The wind, sidling round the corner, Shoots upwards With laughter. The windows rattle as if some one were in them wishing to get out And ride upon the wind. Doors lead to nowhere: Squirrels burrow between the walls. Closets in every room hang open, Windows are stared into by uncivil ancient trees. In the middle of the upper hallway There is a great circular hole Going up to the attic. A wooden lid covers it. All over the house there is a sense of futility; Of minutes dragging slowly And repeating Some worn-out story of broken effort and desire. PART I. THE HOUSE BEDROOM The clump of jessamine Softly beneath the rain Rocks its golden flowers. In this room my father died: His bed is in the corner. No one has slept in it Since the morning when he wakened To 

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