He comes at dusk to the lonely inn;
And the crazy door swings wide,
As he wearily lifts the noiseless latch,
And steps inside.

But no one greets him, as he steps
From the dusk to a deeper gloom;
And not a glint of light steals out
From any room.

Sore, on his weary way, he's longed
To sit by a friendly fire:
But an empty grate and a stone-cold hearth
Chill his desire

As, quaking there, he knows at last
That he is only a ghost
Who has come to dwell at the lonely inn,
With death for host.