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.