Why do I think of stairways
With a rush of hurt surprise?—
Wistful as forgotten love
In remembered eyes,
And fitful as the flutter
Of little draughts of air
That linger on a stairway
As though they loved it there.
New and shining stairways,
Stairways worn and old—
Where rooms are prison places
And corridors are cold—
You intrigue with fancy,
You challenge with a lore
Elusive as a moon's light
Shadowing a floor.
You speak to me not only
With the lure of storied art—
For wonder of old footsteps
Lies lightly on my heart;
More than the reminiscence
Of yesterday's renown—
Laughter that might have floated up,
Echoes that should drift down!