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Dark House

 

Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

 

A hand that can be clasp'd no moreó

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.

 

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

 

                            Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

[artist?]


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