How her remembered hair makes sadness live,
And how her absent voice is young with power!
Yea, for the recollection of one hour
Turns the soul nightward, like a fugitive.”
“I find that being in the house alone
Is gruesome, for the worn and creaky floors,
The wind outside, the rain, the empty doors,
Sing with a wild and ghostly undertone—
Not quite articulate—but yet a moan.
Often I long for the white surf that roars,