When grave the twilight settles o’er
my roof,
And from the haggard oaks unto my door
The rain comes, wild as one who rides
before
His enemies that follow, hoof to hoof;
And in each window’s gusty curtain-woof
The rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters
o’er
Some tale of love and crime; and, on the
floor,
The sunset spreads red stains as bloody
proof;
From hall to hall and stealthy stair to
stair,
Through all the house, a dread that drags
me toward
The ancient dusk of that avoided room,
Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair,
And eyes that gaze beyond her soul’s
sad doom,
Bending above an unreal harpsichord.