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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            VII.
             
      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 clasp’d 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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