The Old House

In through the porch and up the silent stair; Little is changed, I know so well the ways;— Here, the dead came to meet me; it was there The dream was dreamed in unforgotten days.

But who is this that hurries on before, A flitting shade the brooding shades among?— She turned,—I saw her face,—O God, it wore The face I used to wear when I was young!

I thought my spirit and my heart were tamed To deadness; dead the pangs that agonise. The old grief springs to choke me,—I am shamed Before that little ghost with eager eyes.

O turn away, let her not see, not know! How should she bear it, how should understand? O hasten down the stairway, haste and go, And leave her dreaming in the silent land.