Walter Malone

HERE stands the little antiquated house,

A few old-fashioned flowers at the door;

The dead past leaves it, quiet as a mouse,

Though just beyond a giant city roar.

See here the curious porch, the attic there,

The quaint square window with its awkward blind,

The weather-beaten wall, so blank and bare,

And shadowed by an apple tree behind.

Within this room Virginia lay when ill,

A black cat nestling there to warm her feet;

And so she languished, growing paler still,

And shivering as the winds of Winter beat.

And here her mother through the long, long night

Watched ever by the poor consumptive’s side.

Here by the smoky lamp’s low flickering light

They looked upon Virginia when she died.

And here it was they wrapped her in her shroud,

And hence they took her through the falling snow.

So on this old house closed at last the cloud

That haunts it still with griefs of long ago.

And here the poet’s life grew darker still

As dream by dream had vanished into air;

Here day by day grew weaker yet his will,

As golden hopes were rusted in despair.

But here were born those strains that cannot die,

Romances that shall rule the human heart.

Here Fame, whose summer hears no autumn sigh,

Shall rear immortal marbles to his art.

Here Ligeia haunts us with enchanting eyes,

We catch the rustle of Morella’s gown;

Here Usher treads, and William Wilson dies,

And Israfel sings Poe’s supreme renown.