Somebody is whispering on the stair.
What are those words half spoken, half drawn back?
What are those muffled words, some red, some black?
Who is whispering? Who is there?
Somebody is sneaking up the stair,
With feet approaching every doorway
Yet never a moment standing anywhere.
Now they are whispering close outside some door.
Oh, suddenly push it open wide—
You see: whoever said he heard them, he has lied.
And yet words are left dark like heavy dust
In many rooms, or red like rust;
And who contrives to leave them? Some one must.
In every street, this noisy town of ours
Has stealthy whispering watchers walking round,
Recording all our movements, every sound,
Hissing and shuffling, and they may have found
Today my name: tomorrow they’ll find yours.