Songs of Action

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.