THE DYING HOUSE 349 
Youth’s brief hour of springtime knows, — 
All have died into the past. 
Perish too the house at last ! 
Vagrant children come and go 
’Neath the windows, murmuring low ; 
Peering with impatient eye 
For a ghostly mystery. 
Some a fabled secret tell, 
Others touch the soundless bell, 
Then with hurrying step retreat 
From the echo of their feet. 
Or perchance there wander near 
Guests who once held revel here: 
Some live o’er again the days 
Of their love’s first stolen gaze ; 
Or some sad soul, looking in, 
Calls back hours of blight or sin, 
Glad if her mute life may share 
In the sheltering silence there. 
Oh, what cheeks might blanch with fears, 
Had walls tongues, as they have ears! 
Silent house with close-locked doors, 
Ghosts and memories haunt thy floors! 
Not a web of circumstance 
Woven here into romance 
F’er can perish ; many a thread 
Must survive when thou art dead. 
