The Empty House

 

The house is mute, the hallway dark.

The staircase is a chimney dim.

The doorways frown, the light is stark;

The windows stare with faces grim.

 

The furniture looks all forlorn

And stands in awkward groups about;

The toys are smiling, faint with scorn,

And make us lift our voice to shout:

 

“We did not seek to part from her,

Another will than ours prevailed !

Had we the choice, no messenger

Would have such news our ears assailed!”

 

We think we hear that infant throat

When sleep an instant is quick fled;

What music now to hear that note – –

But no, the house is still and dead.

 

No little feet their pattering sound,

No starry eyes peep round the door;

The rooms in dreadful quiet are bound;

Our hearts have sorrow at the core.

 

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