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