Sonnet Lxxxi: Memorial Thresholds

What place so strange,—though unrevealèd snow With unimaginable fires arise At the earth's end,—what passion of surprise Like frost-bound fire-girt scenes of long ago? Lo! this is none but I this hour; and lo! This is the very place which to mine eyes Those mortal hours in vain immortalize, 'Mid hurrying crowds, with what alone I know. City, of thine a single simple door, By some new Power reduplicate, must be Even yet my life-porch in eternity, Even with one presence filled, as once of yore: Or mocking winds whirl round a chaff-strown floor Thee and thy years and these my words and me.