You chide me that with self-absorbed, rapt eyes
I seem to walk apart, nor care to clasp
Familiar hands once dear; like one whose house
Filled with the guests of her own choosing, rings
With sounds of gladness, yet who steals away
Up to some silent chamber of her own,
Forgetful of the duties of a host.
But is not she
The truest and most hospitable friend
Who, noting suddenly among her guests
An unexpected comer, one to whom
She fain would show high honor and respect,
Hastens away with busy feet awhile
To throw wide open to the sun and air
Some long-untenanted fair chamber, rich
With storied heirlooms of her ancestors,
Bright with long windows looking towards the sun,
Waiting but for an occupant?
Even so
Have I but stolen quietly away,
Within the happy silence of my heart
A lovely, sunny chamber to prepare
For a new-comer.