Behind The Arras

As in some dim baronial hall restrained,
  A prisoner sits, engirt by secret doors
  And waving tapestries that argue forth
  Strange passages into the outer air;
  So in this dimmer room which we call life,
  Thus sits the soul and marks with eye intent
  That mystic curtain o'er the portal death;
  Still deeming that behind the arras lies
  The lambent way that leads to lasting light.
  Poor fooled and foolish soul! Know now that death
  Is but a blind, false door that nowhere leads,
  And gives no hope of exit final, free.