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. References 1898 poems British poems Works by Arthur Conan Doyle