A Dead House.

When the clock hath ceased to tick         Soul-like in the gloomy hall;     When the latch no more doth click         Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;     When no more come sounds of play,         Mice nor children romping roam,     Then looks down the eye of day         On a dead house, not a home!     But when, like an old sun's ghost,         Haunts her vault the spectral moon;     When earth's margins all are lost,         Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,     Then a sound--hark! there again!--         No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!     'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,         Walking through the bare-floored house!     And with lightning on the stair         To that silent upper room,     With the thunder-shaken air         Sudden gleaming into gloom,     With a frost-wind whistling round,         From the raging northern coasts,     Then, mid sieging light and sound,         All the house is live with ghosts!     Brother, is thy soul a cell         Empty save of glittering motes,     Where no live loves live and dwell,         Only notions, things, and thoughts?     Then thou wilt, when comes a Breath         Tempest-shaking ridge and post,     Find thyself alone with Death         In a house where walks no ghost.