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A very, very old house I know— And ever so many people go, Past the small lodge, forlorn and still, Under the heavy branches, till Comes the blank wall, and there's the door. Go in they do; come out no more. No voice says aught; no spark of light Across that threshold cheers the sight; Only the evening star on high Less lonely makes a lonely sky, As, one by one, the people go Into that very old house I know. |