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 

-----Original Message-----
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]:

> 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.
> 5
> 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,
> 10
> 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.
> Cheers
> Jose

Thanks, Josť,

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?