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.


More Poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson