The Pier-Glass

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  Lost manor where I walk continually
  A ghost, while yet in woman's flesh and blood;
  Up your broad stairs mounting with outspread fingers
  And gliding steadfast down your corridors
  I come by nightly custom to this room,
  And even on sultry afternoons I come
  Drawn by a thread of time-sunk memory.

  Empty, unless for a huge bed of state
  Shrouded with rusty curtains drooped awry
  (A puppet theatre where malignant fancy
  Peoples the wings with fear). At my right hand
  A ravelled bell-pull hangs in readiness
  To summon me from attic glooms above
  Service of elder ghosts; here at my left
  A sullen pier-glass cracked from side to side
  Scorns to present the face as do new mirrors
  With a lying flush, but shows it melancholy
  And pale, as faces grow that look in mirrors.

  Is here no life, nothing but the thin shadow
  And blank foreboding, never a wainscot rat
  Rasping a crust? Or at the window pane
  No fly, no bluebottle, no starveling spider?
  The windows frame a prospect of cold skies
  Half-merged with sea, as at the first creation,
  Abstract, confusing welter. Face about,
  Peer rather in the glass once more, take note
  Of self, the grey lips and long hair dishevelled,
  Sleep-staring eyes. Ah, mirror, for Christ's love
  Give me one token that there still abides
  Remote, beyond this island mystery,
  So be it only this side Hope, somewhere,
  In streams, on sun-warm mountain pasturage,
  True life, natural breath; not this phantasma.

  A rumour, scarcely yet to be reckoned sound,
  But a pulse quicker or slower, then I know
  My plea is granted; death prevails not yet.
  For bees have swarmed behind in a close place
  Pent up between this glass and the outer wall.
  The combs are founded, the queen rules her court,
  Bee-sergeants posted at the entrance-chink
  Are sampling each returning honey-cargo
  With scrutinizing mouth and commentary,
  Slow approbation, quick dissatisfaction —
  Disquieting rhythm, that leads me home at last
  From labyrinthine wandering. This new mood
  Of judgement orders me my present duty,
  To face again a problem strongly solved
  In life gone by, but now again proposed
  Out of due time for fresh deliberation.
  Did not my answer please the Master's ear?
  Yet, I'll stay obstinate. How went the question,
  A paltry question set on the elements
  Of love and the wronged lover's obligation?
  Kill or forgive? Still does the bed ooze blood?
  Let it drip down till every floor-plank rot!
  Yet shall I answer, challenging the judgement: —
  'Kill, strike the blow again, spite what shall come.'
  'Kill, strike, again, again,' the bees in chorus hum.

© Robert Graves