IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.

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 as 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 dizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

 

XXII

The path by which we twain did go,

Which led by tracts that pleased us well,

Through four sweet years arose and fell,

From flower to flower, from snow to snow;

And we with singing cheered the way,

And, crowned with all the season lent,

From April on to April went,

And glad at heart from May to May.

But where the path we walked began

To slant the fifth autumnal slope,

As we descended following Hope,

There sat the Shadow feared of man;

Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold,

And wrapped thee formless in the fold,

And dulled the murmur on thy lip,

And bore thee where I could not see

Nor follow, though I walk in haste,

And think that somewhere in the waste

The Shadow sits and waits for me.

(1850)
 

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