THE HOUSE 
II3 
 
Into a pageant of triumphant shapes. 
So, as the night grows deeper, and no moon 
Stirs the black heaven, no star its cloud escapes, 
I sit and watch the fire :  my musing drapes 
My soul in darker dreams ; the storm’s wild tune 
Rolls ever deeper in my shuddering swoon : 
 
 
Whereat I start, shudder, and pull together 
My mind.  Why, surely it must be the hour ! 
My friend is coming through the wet wild weather 
Across the moor’s inhospitable heather 
To the old stately tower—my own dear tower. 
He will not fail me for a sudden shower ! 
 
 
My friend !  How often have I longed to see 
Again his gallant figure and that face 
Radiant—how long ago we parted !—we 
The dearest friends that ever were !  Ah me ! 
I curse even now that hateful parting-place. 
But now—he comes !  How glad I am !  Apace 
 
 
Fly the glad minutes—There he is at last ! 
I know the firm foot on the marble floor. 
The hour-glass turns !  What miseries to cast 
For ever to the limbo of the past ! 
He knocks—my friend !  O joy for evermore ! 
He calls !  “ Open the door !  Open the door ! ”