No one, of an evening, now
Turns the door-handle;
And coldly the brass knob stares
In the light of the candle.

Each night, in his grip it would turn,
As the town-clock struck seven;
And my heart was alive for four hours
Till he went at eleven.

No one, of an evening, now
Turns the door-handle;
And coldly the brass knob stares
In the light of the candle.

But, if I should see it move now,
And the door open slowly,
Could I live through that moment to learn
What the night had to show me?