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.
– In Memoriam A. H. H. 7 by Lord Alfred Tennyson
