Empty Houses

I

There 's not a person in the street,
This merry-making summer day !
The houses stand in dull array ;
No profit on their doors to beat,
For all their owners are away.

The gardens blossom white and red
All solitary in the sun,
Save where some timid creatures run ;
Secure across the lawns to tread,
No human dangers here to shun, —

Since men have gone on holiday ;
Have left the still, suburban street
For that wide park, where people meet
In pleasures till the eve is grey.
Oh, but the home-coming is sweet !

II

There 's not a person in the street
Where wandering in grief I go.
These strange small houses, set in row,
Send out no human form to greet,
No busy footfalls to and fro.

Tall poplars raise their shafts beside ;
And mingled shades and sunbeams bless
God's Acre, in its quietness —
God's town, where men are drawn to bide
Untroubled by the world's distress.

There comes no opening of the gate,
Though to my friend I plead and pray.
' Patience ! ' the trees and sunbeams say.
' Here only empty houses wait,
While souls are keeping holiday.'