The mind is a sunbright house: the mind is not haunted By wraiths of old regret, ghosts of despair. The mind is its own place: there the lamp has daunted The dark, and time is pendulumed on a silver wire. The cool flesh has no phantoms as it goes Threading the mazes of dream, the alleys of sleep -- Under the prism of autumn, the wind-driven snows, The flesh is a transient traveler into death's keep. Only the heart is haunted: only the heart Writhes like a flame at remembered footsteps there Whispering along the grass where flowers depart, Chiding the velvet plush on the curving stair. Only the heart is haunted.... Never the flesh, Never the mind is entangled in memory's mesh. |