| |
| HERE stands the little antiquated house, | |
| A few old-fashioned flowers at the door; | |
| The dead past leaves it, quiet as a mouse, | |
| Though just beyond a giant city roar. | |
| |
| See here the curious porch, the attic there, | 5 |
| The quaint square window with its awkward blind, | |
| The weather-beaten wall, so blank and bare, | |
| And shadowed by an apple tree behind. | |
| |
| Within this room Virginia lay when ill, | |
| A black cat nestling there to warm her feet; | 10 |
| And so she languished, growing paler still, | |
| And shivering as the winds of Winter beat. | |
| |
| And here her mother through the long, long night | |
| Watched ever by the poor consumptive’s side. | |
| Here by the smoky lamp’s low flickering light | 15 |
| They looked upon Virginia when she died. | |
| |
| And here it was they wrapped her in her shroud, | |
| And hence they took her through the falling snow. | |
| So on this old house closed at last the cloud | |
| That haunts it still with griefs of long ago. | 20 |
| |
| And here the poet’s life grew darker still | |
| As dream by dream had vanished into air; | |
| Here day by day grew weaker yet his will, | |
| As golden hopes were rusted in despair. | |
| |
| But here were born those strains that cannot die, | 25 |
| Romances that shall rule the human heart. | |
| Here Fame, whose summer hears no autumn sigh, | |
| Shall rear immortal marbles to his art. | |
| |
| Here Ligeia haunts us with enchanting eyes, | |
| We catch the rustle of Morella’s gown; | 30 |
| Here Usher treads, and William Wilson dies, | |
| And Israfel sings Poe’s supreme renown. | |
| |
