Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp’d no more—

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
In Memoriam A.H.H., VII

Natira: You have lived a lonely life?

McCoy: Yes. Very lonely.

—“For the World Is Hollow and
I Have Touched the Sky”