The door is ajar— The door of my soul swung on the hinges of doubt; It is ever ajar and waits for a Caller— A Caller, in the night, or the day—I know not the time that he cometh, Oh whether he cometh at all. I crouch in my being, implacable, receptive, the ears of my soul in rigid prick, Catching whiffs of the Verities borne from seas remote that mirror the catchpenny world in its depths. Sundered from all I sit, To none abnegated, Before my door standing ajar, The door of my soul swung on the hinges of doubt.
What finger-marks these on the white knob of my door? Narrow, black finger-prints, telltale of thinkers and ghosts, Or maybe somnambules who have walked out of Or he, beloved of my soul: Has he called?—where loafed I then? Who wills may enter, But none have I seen— Seen enter the door that's ajar, The door of my soul swung on the hinges of doubt.
Publication History
The Shadow-Eater [1915/17 and 1923]
1923 Edition Text Changes
- rigid prick, > rigid prick;
- Catching whiffs of the Verities borne from seas remote that mirror the catchpenny world in its depths. > [omitted]
- [New stanza at “Who wills may enter”]