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 more—
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 |