VII.
             
        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.