The Guest House

  What imps are these that come with scowl and leer?
  Black motes upon the morning’s amber beam,
  They crowd and float about each happy dream
  And blow upon pure joy the taint of fear.
  Perforce those muttered hideous words we hear,
  Yet bid our nobler nature rise supreme
  And, sunlike, dry to naught th’ infernal steam
  Till all our day is luminous and clear.
  “What cruel beasts find refuge in the soul
  Amid the murky deep of sightless flame
  Whose waves are flatten’d by a rain of blood!”
  Nay, but however pure the waters roll,
  The offal thrown therein will rise and shame
  Their glittering pride with bubbles from the mud.