Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916. | | XXVIII. Loneliness Dark house, by which once more I stand | By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (18091892) |
| 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 claspd 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. | | | |
|
|