The Return Home, 22

The night is still, and the streets are deserted,
In this house my love had her dwelling of yore;
’Tis long since she from the city departed,
Yet her house still stands on the spot as before.

There stands, too, a man, who stares up at her casement,
And wrings his hands with the weight of his woes;
I look on his face with shudd’ring amazement,--
The moon doth the form of myself disclose.

Thou pallid fellow, thou worthless double!
Why dare to mimic my love’s hard lot,
Which many a night gave me grief and trouble
In former days, on this very spot?