The Key

Delving in an untidy drawer,
I find the key to someone’s door,
But where and whose that door may be
Is now no longer known to me.
Do they sit waiting for me still
In Clapham, or on Campden Hill,
Those who, with simple hearts aglow,
Gave me this key, so long ago?
Or do they load their guns, and frown,
In Wapping, or in Kentish Town,
And jerk from time to time their thumbs,
Muttering, grimly, “Here he comes!”?
Or have they, down by Shadwell Dock,
In deepest dudgeon changed the lock,
And nightly voice the glad refrain:
“At least we shan’t see him again!”?
Or does some lady, fair but pale,
In Marylebone or Maida Vale,
Or fifty yards from King’s Cross Station,
Hourly await my visitation?
Hearkens she still, with bated breath;
To hear my call — “Elizabeth!”
(Or, haply, as the case may be,
“Rowena!”, “Ruth !”, or “Rose Marie!”)?
I do not know. Time’s rushing wings
Have taken from me many things
That once I knew, but know no more....
What was it I was looking for?