Dark House

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

　　

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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 a hand. A hand that can be clasped 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 drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

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