This door you might not open, and you did;
⁠So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed. … Here is no treasure hid,
⁠No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
⁠For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see. . . . Look yet again—
⁠An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alorne out of my life I kept
⁠Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
⁠Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
⁠This now is yours. I seek another place.