Haunted Rooms

Must this not be, whate'er the years disclose,
When I and those in whom my heart has vent.
From whose dear lives soul-light to mine is sent,
Lie at the last 'neath where the long grass grows,
Made one, in one interminable repose,
Not knowing whence we came or whither went, -
Done with regret, with black presentiment
Of greater griefs, or more victorious foes, —

Must this not be that one then dwelling here,
Where one man and his sorrows dwelt so long.
Shall feel the pressure of a ghostly throng,
And shall upon some desolate midnight hear
A sound more sad than is the pine-trees' song,
And thrill with greats inexplicable fear?