Solitude
- By Walter De La Mare
Ghosts there must be with me in this old house,
Deepening its midnight as the clock beats on.
Whence else upwelled - strange, sweet, yet ominous -
That moment of happiness, and then was gone?
Nimbler than air-borne music, heart may call
A speechless message to the inward ear,
As secret even as that which then befell,
Yet nought that listening could make more clear.
Delicate, subtle senses, instant, fleet! -
But oh, how near the verge at which they fail!
In vain, self hearkens for the fall of feet
Soft as its own may be, beyond the pale.
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