At the Inner Door

Where now the muse with fiery tongue

Whose words lapped at the waiting brain,

I cannot say if she has gone

Or if she might deign to come again,

I only know that she was here

And I but caught the trailing thread

Of songs that touched the inner ear

And held me fast when what she said

Was heard in the silence that now has fled.

But surely I shall hear once more

For poetry is never dead

If soul knock at the inner door.