Said the Door: "She came in With no shadow of sin; Turned the key in the lock, Slipped out of her frock, The robe she liked best When for supper she dressed. Then a letter she tore . . . What a wan look she wore!" Said the Door.
Said the Chair: "She sat down With a pitiful frown, And then (oh, it's queer) Just one lonely tear Rolled down her pale cheek. How I hoped she would speak As she let down her hair," Said the Chair.
Said the Glass: "Then she gazed Into me like one dazed; As with delicate grace She made up her face, Her cheeks and her lips With rose finger-tips, So lovely - alas! Then she turned on the gas." Said the Glass.
Said the Bed: "Down she lay In a weariful way, Like an innocent child, To her fate reconciled; Hands clasped to her breast, In prayer or in rest: 'Dear Mother,' she said, Then pillowed her head," Said the Bed.
Said the Room: "Then the gleam Of the moon like a dream, Soft silvered my space, And it fell on her face That was never so sweet As her heart ceased to beat . . . Then the moon fled and gloom Fell like funeral plume," Said the Room.
"Just a whore," Said the Door; "Yet so fair," Said the Chair; "Frail, alas!" Said the Glass; "Now she's dead," Said the Bed; "Sorry doom," Said the Room. . . .
Then they all, Floor and wall, Quiet grew, Ceiling too; Like a tomb Was the room; With hushed breath Hailing Death: Soul's release, Silence, Peace.