I <br /> <br />THERE’S not a person in the street, <br /> This merry-making summer day! <br /> The houses stand in dull array; <br />No profit on their doors to beat, <br /> For all their owners are away. <br /> <br />The gardens blossom white and red <br /> All solitary in the sun, <br /> Save where some timid creatures run; <br />Secure across the lawns to tread, <br /> No human dangers here to shun,— <br /> <br />Since men have gone on holiday; <br /> Have left the still, suburban street <br /> For that wide park, where people meet <br />In pleasures till the eve is grey. <br /> Oh, but the home-coming is sweet! <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />There’s not a person in the street <br /> Where wandering in grief I go. <br /> These strange small houses, set in row, <br />Send out no human form to greet, <br /> No busy footfalls to and fro. <br /> <br />Tall poplars raise their shafts beside; <br /> And mingled shades and sunbeams bless <br /> God’s Acre, in its quietness— <br />God’s town, where men are drawn to bide <br /> Untroubled by the world’s distress. <br /> <br />There comes no opening of the gate, <br /> Though to my friend I plead and pray. <br />‘Patience!’ the trees and sunbeams say. <br />‘Here only empty houses wait, <br /> While souls are keeping holiday.’<br /><br />Mary Colborne-Veel<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/empty-houses/
