A Room
Whitewashed or panelled, filled with books, with light,
With flowers, with trifles sacred to the heart,
And work so pure and sweet that morning-dew
Might settle there and feel itself at home
As though 'mid garden fragrance; while the carol
Of birds streams through the window joyously,
Mistaking that abode of peace and love
For their own woodland haunts! And in that room
A woman's dainty hands ever at work,
A woman's loving heart ever awake
For others' happiness, a woman's thought
Alive in tender memories that embalm
The past in mute forgiveness. Enter then
As 'twere a sanctuary, lay aside
Thy load of care, and yield thy weary soul
To the deep sense of comfort reigning there.
Not many words--nay, not a single word--
Need tremble through the stillness, not a sigh
With untoward avowal break the peace
That folds thee to its heart and asks no question.
Such perfect peace pervades a room like this,
'Twould seem the raging storm, the roaring sea,
Might lay themselves to rest upon its threshold.
The ghosts that haunt it come in guise of angels,
With rosy finger-tips laid on their lips,
To hush our voices to the whispered tones
Of children's prayers. Enter, thou weary wanderer,
Enter! and have no fear, for pain and anguish
Have long been wept away, and have but left
Their precious perfume and the healing balm
Of self-forgetfulness to comfort thee!
poem by Carmen Sylva
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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