Iv

Old paintings on its wainscots, And, in its oaken hall, Old arras; and the twilight Of sorrow over all.

Old grandeur on its stairways; And in its haunted rooms Old souvenirs of greatness, And ghosts of dead perfumes.

The winds are phantom voices Around its carven doors; The moonbeams, specter footsteps Upon its polished floors.

Old cedars build around it A solitude of sighs; And the old hours pass through it With immemorial eyes.

But more than this I know not; Nor where the house may be; Nor what its ancient secret And ancient grief to me.

It seems my soul remembers,-- Of which this house is part,-- Once, in a former lifetime, 'Twas here I broke my heart.