These mansions have a way of growing old —
dusk peeps through cracks inflaming in the dark,
the bastions stoop wearily in the cold,
the leaden gates of flooding night still hark
that guest or lord who no longer arrives
and leaves all chambers teeming with suspense;
there in the yard the walnut tree revives
a frisson of belonging in some sense.
It takes the calmest walls to know the other,
to let self know itself before its close,
keep self to self and never let it smother
that other whether changed or not, like those
who live all through all those who came and rent
these voids awhile with this or that and went.