When the house is full — and it holds a score —
And you've known them all for a week or more;
And the last day comes and they crowd the hall,
With babies and baskets and rugs and all.

When the time is close, and the train is near,
And startlingly shrill the whistle you hear,
When " Good-byes " are said and handkerchiefs wave,
The house is as dead as a bushman's grave.

With a sinking feeling you can't resist
You go outside and see in the mist —
Through something nearly akin to tears —
The hurrying ghosts of the vanished years.