Impression
George Soule
Her life was late a new-built house—Empty, with shining window panes,Where neither sorrow nor carouseHad left red stains.A passing vagrant, least of men,Entered and used; her hearth-fire shone.She mellowed, he grew restless then—Left her alone.Now she is vacant as before,Desolate through the weary whiles;Yet play about the darkened doorShadows of smiles.
Her life was late a new-built house—Empty, with shining window panes,Where neither sorrow nor carouseHad left red stains.A passing vagrant, least of men,Entered and used; her hearth-fire shone.She mellowed, he grew restless then—Left her alone.Now she is vacant as before,Desolate through the weary whiles;Yet play about the darkened doorShadows of smiles.
Her life was late a new-built house—Empty, with shining window panes,Where neither sorrow nor carouseHad left red stains.
Her life was late a new-built house—
Empty, with shining window panes,
Where neither sorrow nor carouse
Had left red stains.
A passing vagrant, least of men,Entered and used; her hearth-fire shone.She mellowed, he grew restless then—Left her alone.
A passing vagrant, least of men,
Entered and used; her hearth-fire shone.
She mellowed, he grew restless then—
Left her alone.
Now she is vacant as before,Desolate through the weary whiles;Yet play about the darkened doorShadows of smiles.
Now she is vacant as before,
Desolate through the weary whiles;
Yet play about the darkened door
Shadows of smiles.