Impression

Her life was late a new-built house— Empty, with shining window panes, Where neither sorrow nor carouse Had left red stains. A passing vagrant, least of men, Entered and used; her hearth-fire shone. She mellowed, he grew restless then— Left her alone. Now she is vacant as before, Desolate through the weary whiles; Yet play about the darkened door Shadows of smiles.