Dark house, dark lonely grave,
Within your walls under Yew boughs
There is quiet sleep,
And not a trace of care
But deep forgetting on a man's being falls...
There is nothing , not a creature calls
Unless those fragile airs
That stirs the little leaves,
Say something to the secret mound
Of many burials...
Dark house, your hours have never known
The hurry and the passion of our days.
Within that heart of stone
Love never beat, nor hate could live.
Nothing at all is left,
Unless in that damp cell
The dead may have a dream he cannot tell..
