There is no one in this house.
The sound you hear is wind grieving the floor,
Or a cricket’s rasp under the dusty hearth,
Or the mantel sagging with emptiness.
No living hand lifts to this door.
This house was cherished. It knew joy
Rising in happy throats, and it knew peace;
It had its share of pain, of tears,
Of the balm of time, of love full and deep.
This house is filled with yesteryears and sleep.