Departure
Oldhouse now ruined, wrecked and gray,Home once enshrined of love’s delightAnd all glad promise of the May,Now hushed in shades of wintry night,—Once garment of a thousand loves,Now but a shroud of glooming stone,—While sad October moans and roves,Old house, old house, we are alone!We are alone; yea, you and I,Who dreamed old summers in their prime;Now sad and late, to see them dieAlong this ruined verge of time.Old rooms now empty, once so bright,—Staircases climbed of gladdening feet,Dark windows erstwhile filled with lightWhere now but rains of autumn beat:—Where now but lorn months call and callAnd sea and gust and night complain,—With ghost-boughs shadowing on the wall,Or dead vines knocking at the pane.Old place, whose ceilings, walls and floorsStill redolent of love and May;Once more, once more I leave your doors,Into the night I take my way.Huge yawning hearths, once flaming brightOn many a well-loved face and formLong gathered out unto the nightTo meet the vastness and the storm,—Into the night; where I, too, go,Beyond your sheltering walls and doors;Where death’s October drives his woeOver a thousand midnight moors,Beyond your sheltering, where I beatTo sleep with stars of dark o’ergleamed,Or breast the night of moan and sleetTo meet that morn a world hath dreamed.Hath dreamed? Hope-hungering heart hath read,And carolled morning-lifted lark!Yea, back of all this muffled dreadPerchance some splendor rifts the dark.Yea, though no magic reach its gleams,Nor heart of doubting prove it true,Old house, beloved, of my dead dreams,While I go forth from love and you.
Oldhouse now ruined, wrecked and gray,Home once enshrined of love’s delightAnd all glad promise of the May,Now hushed in shades of wintry night,—Once garment of a thousand loves,Now but a shroud of glooming stone,—While sad October moans and roves,Old house, old house, we are alone!We are alone; yea, you and I,Who dreamed old summers in their prime;Now sad and late, to see them dieAlong this ruined verge of time.Old rooms now empty, once so bright,—Staircases climbed of gladdening feet,Dark windows erstwhile filled with lightWhere now but rains of autumn beat:—Where now but lorn months call and callAnd sea and gust and night complain,—With ghost-boughs shadowing on the wall,Or dead vines knocking at the pane.Old place, whose ceilings, walls and floorsStill redolent of love and May;Once more, once more I leave your doors,Into the night I take my way.Huge yawning hearths, once flaming brightOn many a well-loved face and formLong gathered out unto the nightTo meet the vastness and the storm,—Into the night; where I, too, go,Beyond your sheltering walls and doors;Where death’s October drives his woeOver a thousand midnight moors,Beyond your sheltering, where I beatTo sleep with stars of dark o’ergleamed,Or breast the night of moan and sleetTo meet that morn a world hath dreamed.Hath dreamed? Hope-hungering heart hath read,And carolled morning-lifted lark!Yea, back of all this muffled dreadPerchance some splendor rifts the dark.Yea, though no magic reach its gleams,Nor heart of doubting prove it true,Old house, beloved, of my dead dreams,While I go forth from love and you.
Oldhouse now ruined, wrecked and gray,Home once enshrined of love’s delightAnd all glad promise of the May,Now hushed in shades of wintry night,—
Once garment of a thousand loves,Now but a shroud of glooming stone,—While sad October moans and roves,Old house, old house, we are alone!
We are alone; yea, you and I,Who dreamed old summers in their prime;Now sad and late, to see them dieAlong this ruined verge of time.
Old rooms now empty, once so bright,—Staircases climbed of gladdening feet,Dark windows erstwhile filled with lightWhere now but rains of autumn beat:—
Where now but lorn months call and callAnd sea and gust and night complain,—With ghost-boughs shadowing on the wall,Or dead vines knocking at the pane.
Old place, whose ceilings, walls and floorsStill redolent of love and May;Once more, once more I leave your doors,Into the night I take my way.
Huge yawning hearths, once flaming brightOn many a well-loved face and formLong gathered out unto the nightTo meet the vastness and the storm,—
Into the night; where I, too, go,Beyond your sheltering walls and doors;Where death’s October drives his woeOver a thousand midnight moors,
Beyond your sheltering, where I beatTo sleep with stars of dark o’ergleamed,Or breast the night of moan and sleetTo meet that morn a world hath dreamed.
Hath dreamed? Hope-hungering heart hath read,And carolled morning-lifted lark!Yea, back of all this muffled dreadPerchance some splendor rifts the dark.
Yea, though no magic reach its gleams,Nor heart of doubting prove it true,Old house, beloved, of my dead dreams,While I go forth from love and you.