At night, when all the house is still,
Wide-waked the chairs and tables come
And yawn and stretch their limbs until
The maids appear with pan and broom.
Through the dim hours they creak and groan,
Their laughter plays with tyrant Man,
Shaken with stiff derision
For his pretensions and his span.
Where's then their willing servitude ?
Meek slaves for their creator's use.
They make a mock of flesh and blood
That passes with a morning's dews.
The heart that once leaped in the tree
Yet lives in the fantastic shapes
That foolish Man hath made to be --
But see how wide yon cupboard gapes!
With " Yours" and "Mine" they make great sport,
Who saw us come and see us go,
And will be when no least report
Of us but what a stone can show.
When ghosts and owlets flit abroad,
The furniture's awake, aware,
The floor complaining of its load,
And what a creaking of the stair.
