As Drifted Dust

That ominous day, when Age shall pass my gate,
Behind my hostile shutters, still as snow,
A little cold and frightened I shall wait,
That she may. think I’m not at home and go.
But if she come again, and knock and knock,
There is a crooked chair behind the door
Where she may sit—while in my scarlet frock
I go about my business as before.
And if she be to me as drifted dust
Upon the furnishings; a gnawing mouse,
I only suffer there because I must—
How can she spoil the beauty in my house,
Should I have gathered what no dust destroys,
And learned a music that can drown her noise?