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1837–1920

DEAD.

William Dean Howells

Something lies in the room Over against my own; The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom Of candles, burning alone,—

Untrimmed, and all aflare In the ghastly silence there! People go by the door, Tiptoe, holding their breath,

And hush the talk that they held before, Lest they should waken Death, That is awake all night There in the candlelight!

The cat upon the stairs Watches with flamy eye For the sleepy one who shall unawares Let her go stealing by.

She softly, softly purrs, And claws at the banisters. The bird from out its dream Breaks with a sudden song,

That stabs the sense like a sudden scream; The hound the whole night long Howls to the moonless sky, So far, and starry, and high.

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DEAD. · William Dean Howells · Poetry Cove