When The Clock Hath Ceased To Tick Soul-Like In The Gloomy Hall; When The Latch No More Doth Click Tongue-Like In The Red Peach-Wall; When No More Come Sounds Of Play, Mice Nor Children Romping Roam, Then Looks Down The Eye Of Day On A Dead House, Not A Home! But When, Like An Old Sun'S Ghost, Haunts Her Vault The Spectral Moon; When Earth'S Margins All Are Lost, Melting Shapes Nigh Merged In Swoon, Then A Sound--Hark! There Again!-- No, 'Tis Not A Nibbling Mouse! 'Tis A Ghost, Unseen Of Men, Walking Through The Bare-Floored House! And With Lightning On The Stair To That Silent Upper Room, With The Thunder-Shaken Air Sudden Gleaming Into Gloom, With A Frost-Wind Whistling Round, From The Raging Northern Coasts, Then, Mid Sieging Light And Sound, All The House Is Live With Ghosts! Brother, Is Thy Soul A Cell Empty Save Of Glittering Motes, Where No Live Loves Live And Dwell, Only Notions, Things, And Thoughts? Then Thou Wilt, When Comes A Breath Tempest-Shaking Ridge And Post, Find Thyself Alone With Death In A House Where Walks No Ghost.