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<h2>THE INNER ROOM</h2> It is mine—the little chamber,    Mine alone. I had it from my forbears    Years agone. Yet within its walls I see A most motley company, And they one and all claim me    As their own. There’s one who is a soldier    Bluff and keen; Single-minded, heavy-fisted,    Rude of mien. He would gain a purse or stake it, He would win a heart or break it, He would give a life or take it,    Conscience-clean. And near him is a priest    Still schism-whole; He loves the censer-reek    And organ-roll. He has leanings to the mystic, Sacramental, eucharistic; And dim yearnings altruistic    Thrill his soul. There’s another who with doubts    Is overcast; I think him younger brother    To the last. Walking wary stride by stride, Peering forwards anxious-eyed, Since he learned to doubt his guide    In the past. And ’mid them all, alert,    But somewhat cowed, There sits a stark-faced fellow,    Beetle-browed, Whose black soul shrinks away From a lawyer-ridden day, And has thoughts he dare not say    Half avowed. There are others who are sitting,    Grim as doom, In the dim ill-boding shadow    Of my room. Darkling figures, stern or quaint, Now a savage, now a saint, Showing fitfully and faint    Through the gloom. And those shadows are so dense,    There may be Many—very many—more    Than I see. They are sitting day and night Soldier, rogue, and anchorite; And they wrangle and they fight    Over me. If the stark-faced fellow win,    All is o’er! If the priest should gain his will    I doubt no more! But if each shall have his day, I shall swing and I shall sway In the same old weary way    As before. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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