Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AT CHAMBERS, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AT CHAMBERS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: To the chamber, where now uncaring
Last Line: Than in earning the right to a song!
Subject(s): Begging & Beggars; Mothers


To the chamber, where now uncaring
I sit apart from the strife,
While the fool and the knave are sharing
The pleasures and profits of life,

There came a faint knock at the door,
Not long since on a terrible day;
One faint little knock, and no more;
And I brushed the loose papers away.

And as no one made answer, I rose,
With quick step and impatience of look,
And a glance of the eye which froze,
And a ready voice of rebuke.

But when the door opened, behold!
A mother, low-voiced and mild,
Whose thin shawl and weak arms enfold
A pale little two-year-old child.

What brought her there? Would I relieve her?
Was all the poor mother could say;
For her child, scarce recovered from fever,
Left the hospital only that day.

Pale, indeed, was the child; yet so cheerful,
That, seeing me wonder, she said,
Of doubt and repulse, grown fearful,
"Please look at his dear little head;"

And snatched off the little bonnet,
And so in a moment laid bare
A shorn little head, and upon it
No trace of the newly-come hair.

When, seeing the stranger's eye
Grow soft; of an innocent guile
The child looked up, shrinking and shy,
With the ghost of a baby smile.

Poor child! I thought, so soon come
To the knowledge of lives oppressed,
To whom poverty comes with home,
And sickness brings food and rest:

Who art launched forth, a frail little boat,
In the midst of life's turbulent sea,
To sink, it may be, or to float
On great waves that care nothing for thee.

What awaits thee? An early peace
In the depths of a little grave,
Or, despite all thy ills to increase,
Through some dark chance, mighty, to save;

Till in stalwart manhood you meet
The strong man, who regards you today,
Crawling slowly along the street,
In old age withered and gray?

Who knows? But the thoughts I have told
In one instant flashed through my brain,
As the poor mother, careful of cold,
Clasped her infant to her again.

And I, if I searched for my purse,
Was I selfish, say you, and wrong?
Surely silver is wasted worse
Than in earning the right to a song!





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net