Sir Arthur Conan Doyle



                   The Inner Room


                   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. 


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