Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
XXVIII. Loneliness
‘Dark house, by which once more I stand’
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)
From ‘In Memoriam’

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—        5
    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,        10
    And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
*        *        *        *        *
O days and hours, your work is this,
    To hold me from my proper place,
    A little while from his embrace,        15
For fuller gain of after bliss:
That out of distance might ensue
    Desire of nearness doubly sweet;
    And unto meeting when we meet,
Delight a hundredfold accrue,        20
For every grain of sand that runs,
    And every span of shade that steals,
    And every kiss of toothèd wheels,
And all the courses of the suns.

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