In Memoriam A. H. H. 7

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.