Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IN A LODGING HOUSE, by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IN A LODGING HOUSE, by                 Poet Analysis    
First Line: Get to thy room, a voice told me
Last Line: And less thy hope than older men.
Alternate Author Name(s): Davies, W. H.
Subject(s): Hotels; Inns; Innskeepers; Motels; Boarding Houses


'Get to thy room,' a voice told me,
'From sottish lips in blasphemy';
And I said this: 'If I go there,
Silence will send me to Despair;
Then my weak What I Am will be
Mocked by that one I wish to be;
And leeches of regret will lie
On me to palely stupefy,
Close sucking at my heart's content' --
Yet I arose, to my room went.
I knew't: scarce off my garments were
When came the funeral gathering there
To bury my dead hopes, as night
By night to mock my Fancy's sight.
There was a meeting-house adjoined,
Where rich ones, rare and few of kind,
Fed little children, came to cheer
Parents with music sweet to hear.
While now I grieved a real voice stole
Into my room, and sang this soul
To heaven from hell, though I knew well
Silence would drift it back to hell
When that sweet sound was heard no more.
She sang to me a chanted shore
Where seamaids' dripping tresses spread
And made the rocks gold carpeted;
She sang me back to childhood's way,
To fields with lambs to see at play,
And sheep that coughed like men. Again
I saw quaint treasures of the main,
Dried fishes, model ships, and shells,
And coral stalks, and seaweed bells,
In my grandfather's house. Ah! sweet
To bear his boast through school and street --
'Master of my own ship was I.'
Again I heard his footsteps nigh,
As to and fro the passage dark
He walked, as though on his own bark;
When granny, I, a sister, brother,
Huddled under cosy cover.
Now have I lived my score and ten,
Yet less my hope than older men.
No collier bowelled in the earth
But Hope shall flush with rosy breath;
No seaman drowning in the main,
Nor traveller perished on a plain,
Where all is silent, and the wind
Prowls day and night in vain to find
A living thing to make a moan,
Or mountaineer was lost -- nay, none
Of these but Hope makes less afraid,
And flatters to some call for aid.
Yet here lives one a score and ten,
And less his hope then older men.
I cared not for that singer's grace,
If plain she were or fair of face,
Or what her station, age might be --
She was a Voice, no more to me,
But such an one, so sweet and fresh,
I made no judgment on her flesh.
It seemed a spirit there to float,
Alighting with such raptured note
That it must ease its heart of. Oh,
Woman; thy sweet voice none others know
As those to whom thou'rt seldom heard;
Who have no flower to tend, no bird
For pet, no child to play -- to give
A cultured joy to ones that live
In common lodging house. To hear
A sweet voice is to me more dear
Than sound of organs, bands, or bells.
Discordant bursts lead out soft swells
Of instrumental harmony --
Love's voice is from all discord free,
Here darkly die, die darkly here,
And lack e'en Friendship's common tear;
A wreck of men, one score and ten,
And less thy hope than older men.





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