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.
---Tennyson, _In Memoriam_
J. P. Earls, OSB
English / St. John's University
Collegeville, MN 56321
From: Gunnar Jauch [mailto:[log in to unmask]]
Sent: Friday, January 11, 2002 2:32 PM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: What a lovely day!
am 11.01.2002 16:16 Uhr schrieb Jose Pereira unter
[log in to unmask]:
> AUNT HELEN
> MISS HELEN SLINGSBY was my maiden aunt,
> And lived in a small house near a fashionable swuare
> Cared for by servants to the number of four.
> Now when she died there was silence in heaven
> And silence at her end of the street.
> The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet-
> He was aware that this sort of thing had occured before.
> The dogs were handsomely provided for,
> But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
> The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
> And the footman sat upon the dining-table
> Holding the second housemaid on his knees<
> Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
for a splendid poem I didn't know.
The line "And silence at her end of the street" reminds me of a famous
I once got to know thanks to Nancy -- I just remember vesitiges of some
....came knocking at a door
....looking for a hand
A hand that can't be clasp'd no more
....for I cannot sleep
And, finally, something about a grey morning creeping up the rainy
I'm sure it rings a bell to some of you! Who can help?