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 alone 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 tonight
  That I must never more behold your face.
    This now is yours.  I seek another place.