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Robert Graves - 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.
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