VI

The doors upon their hinges creak'd;

The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse

      Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,

Or from the crevice peer'd about.

      Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

Old voices call'd her from without.

            She only said, "My life is dreary,

                  He cometh not," she said;

            She said, "1 am aweary, aweary,

                  I would that I were dead!"