Seven A.M.

O edifice of solitude

surrounded by the thicket,

why art thou without spectator

observing thy exhibit?

What eve’ storm hath the credit

for the end of thy soiree?

What foul and fiendish act has stopped

thy profit through the day?

We see thy shadows darken

with the rising of the sun.

We see them creeping onward

like the wolves against the one.

Thy empty halls do echo

with the sorry songs of yore.

The clock strikes seven as if that

were starting time before.

It looks as though thy windows

gleam—yet still—with market’s eye,

though merchandise is little and

there’s nothing yours’ to buy.

The woodland seems to grow before

thy flank, as like a legion,

as if to take what once was theirs:

the ground that is thy region.

With empty halls defense is scarce

to guard against this foe.

Why wast thou so abandoned, shop?

Where did thy builders go?

What fancies caught the eye of

thy creators, shop of white?

Why now at seven, are thy doors

not wide, with inner light?

Art thou as all the earth must go?

Dost thou thy whole life tread?

Thy days grow ever dimmer, O,

white frame, art thou thus dead?

But nay, thy clock still rings, as

like a ribbon on thy sleeve.

Nevermore might spirits enter,

though never also, shall they leave.

All thy being lingers onward

though thy hospitality ends.

None shall come before thee longer

as a monarch without friends.

Though thy beacon lingers lonely,

placid are thy ripples made.

Without visit, without all,

but still thy mem’ry shall not fade.

Though the day will pass and swiftly,

none shall e’re forget thy gem,

when none did come to get inside

thy humble walls at seven a.m.