24
The House Desolate
Sometimes they call, but answer comes there none;
Sometimes they beckon—none will turn aside.
The long procession glitters in the sun;
With echoing tramp the motley pilgrims ride.
Some in the twilight chambers, wide and low,
Around a cold hearth gather, murmuring
Vague, half—remembered tales of long ago,
Songs, half forgot, of Travel and the Spring.
Wan faces peer from the uncurtained pane,
Across the weedy garden, fain to see,
The wayfarers that pass in sun or rain,
The blue, far-shining stream that threads the lea.
*****
Here falls no word from any passer—by,
None lifts the latch of this forgotten gate;
Only faint winds about the lintel sigh
"Your house is left unto you desolate."
