Poems (Forrest)/The brass door-knocker
THE BRASS DOOR-KNOCKER
A sixteenth-century gentleman, who holds
A book within his hand, or else some screed
That dates a heritage and proves a case—
A likely thing to balance to a need—
With no disclosures in his sombre face.
This is the knocker! How the grey ghosts pass
A knick-a-knocking on the time-worn brass!
A book within his hand, or else some screed
That dates a heritage and proves a case—
A likely thing to balance to a need—
With no disclosures in his sombre face.
This is the knocker! How the grey ghosts pass
A knick-a-knocking on the time-worn brass!
Perhaps a burly rogue, with murder pent
In his cold heart, came stealthily by night
And touched this warning with a treacherous hand,
Fearing the smoking torches' ruddy light,
Though venture—and escape—were ably planned,
But Chance may make the craftiest play the fool;
The brain behind him might not spare the tool!
In his cold heart, came stealthily by night
And touched this warning with a treacherous hand,
Fearing the smoking torches' ruddy light,
Though venture—and escape—were ably planned,
But Chance may make the craftiest play the fool;
The brain behind him might not spare the tool!
One notes the seeking ray the lamp has cast
On to the shallow steps, hears clashing chains,
A handle turning; then, to guard the street,
Only a closed door with its clamps remains.
The watch belike is slumbering on his beat.
Did the lean prowling cat that padded by
Bristle a moment at a muffled cry?
On to the shallow steps, hears clashing chains,
A handle turning; then, to guard the street,
Only a closed door with its clamps remains.
The watch belike is slumbering on his beat.
Did the lean prowling cat that padded by
Bristle a moment at a muffled cry?
Now down the steps the hooded slayer creeps,
Looks round just once, his shoulders hunched, as though
He felt the burden on his blackened soul.
Past Wapping Stairs the oily tides will flow;
The boat must find him ready at the goal;
There is a bag of gold, and (happier chancel)
Some red-cheeked Moll to share the voyage to France!
Looks round just once, his shoulders hunched, as though
He felt the burden on his blackened soul.
Past Wapping Stairs the oily tides will flow;
The boat must find him ready at the goal;
There is a bag of gold, and (happier chancel)
Some red-cheeked Moll to share the voyage to France!
He does not brush the knocker as he goes;
Till dawn, undimmed its glimmer shall remain.
The sixteenth-century gentleman can snatch
Untroubled dreaming, though a crimson stain
Grows on the costly carpets, from that patch
Between the linens of a great man's breast.
To-morrow shall the knocker know no rest!
Till dawn, undimmed its glimmer shall remain.
The sixteenth-century gentleman can snatch
Untroubled dreaming, though a crimson stain
Grows on the costly carpets, from that patch
Between the linens of a great man's breast.
To-morrow shall the knocker know no rest!
Perchance on some rose-scented summer's night
An ivory hand has slipped a silken cloak,
Dreading the tat-a-tat her trembling makes,
Sure that her furtive knock the world awoke,
Till from curled head to satin shoe she quakes,
And almost turns to flee the way she came,
Rosy with blushes from her happy shame!
An ivory hand has slipped a silken cloak,
Dreading the tat-a-tat her trembling makes,
Sure that her furtive knock the world awoke,
Till from curled head to satin shoe she quakes,
And almost turns to flee the way she came,
Rosy with blushes from her happy shame!
M'Lord will trust no menial to the door;
Sleek-footed he will come himself, to set
The panel wide, yet let no lamplight through.
More wide his arms, to teach her to forget,
To plant a laughter in her bright eyes blue,
Press his hot lips where her white throat is bare
And carry her, triumphant, up the stair!
Sleek-footed he will come himself, to set
The panel wide, yet let no lamplight through.
More wide his arms, to teach her to forget,
To plant a laughter in her bright eyes blue,
Press his hot lips where her white throat is bare
And carry her, triumphant, up the stair!
The sixteenth-century gentleman may muse
A little on the ways of lovers then,
A tolerant smile upon his beared lip—
M'Lord the Duke is just as other men!
Screwed to the door a brass man, too, may slip.
Perhaps the light wind moved him to a tune
Upon the panel; or this night of June
A little on the ways of lovers then,
A tolerant smile upon his beared lip—
M'Lord the Duke is just as other men!
Screwed to the door a brass man, too, may slip.
Perhaps the light wind moved him to a tune
Upon the panel; or this night of June
Found Eros lingering in the quiet street,
Till unseen fingers touched the oblong brass,
Playing the measure of a merry song.
Let not wiseacres scold! All love must pass.
Let Youth enjoy—the roses last not long.
The old door-knocker taps to every mood
Till . . . two brass handles lift a chest of wood!
Till unseen fingers touched the oblong brass,
Playing the measure of a merry song.
Let not wiseacres scold! All love must pass.
Let Youth enjoy—the roses last not long.
The old door-knocker taps to every mood
Till . . . two brass handles lift a chest of wood!