THE HOUSE OF DEATH.
NOT a hand has lifted the latchet Since she went out of the door,— No footstep shall cross the threshold, Since she can come in no more.
There is rust upon locks and hinges, And mold and blight on the walls, And silence faints in the chambers, And darkness waits in the halls,—
Waits, as all things have waited, Since she went, that day of spring, Borne in her pallid splendor, To dwell in the Court of the King:
With lilies on brow and bosom, With robes of silken sheen, And her wonderful frozen beauty The lilies and silk between.
Red roses she left behind her, But they died long, long ago,— 'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom That seemed through the dusk to glow.