From my writing-table’s kneehole stole I softly to the weehole
Which the people call the keyhole—keyhole of my chamber door,
Peeping through it saw another eye the other side the door,
Looking at me—nothing more.
V.
Straight to stop that sly eye’s prying, to the key my lips applying,
Blew I such a puff of smoke as no man ever puffed before;
Then I heard him backward starting, rub his eye as if ’twere smarting,
And he seemed to be departing, so I whispered, “Is it sore?”
This I whispered through the keyhole; echo answered “It is sore.”