Poems (Forrest)/The candles

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THE CANDLES
Not one inch have the candles burned! They are firmest wax, and the honey beesGave of their best to deck the sconces. Why have the wicks been quenched in these?For somebody lit them that I knowBarely a full-sped hour ago!
The saffron silks of the 'broidered curtain Have found its fringe in the polished floor,For the moon peers in at the lozenged window, But no one knocks at the unlatched door—Silence, shadows, with doom opprest,And these wax accusers upon the chest!
A rosewood coffer with brass clamps gleaming Over the fox-skins on the boards;The carven chairs in a solemn circle, The satin prie-Dieu with ravelled cordsThat close to a suit of mail is set,Gorget, morion, solleret.
Does something lurk in 'the darkest corner? Did something move in that blackest patch?I should shriek if I heard across the chamber The stealthy scrape of an unseen match. ​Even the moon withdraws her light,Climbing the poplars out of sight.
There's a whiff of jonquils, thick and yellow, That comes from a bracket near the sill,And a clock ticks somewhere behind the arras Like a death-watch heard in a room too stillAnd I dare not enter until I knowWho lit those candles an hour ago.
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