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In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 7

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.
Autres oeuvres par Lord Alfred Tennyson...



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