The Dark House

On a bleak December’s day I came across this house at the crossroads of two lonely country roads.

And I thought of Tennyson’s “Dark House.” It just seemed appropiate.

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.