In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 7

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.




-Tennyson