Why does she hear the ticking of the clock,
That has ticked on, unheard of her, before —
And the wind whistling through the keyless lock
Of the great outer door?

Why does she start at every restless creak
Of rafter-timbers, dreaming themselves young?
And tremble at the harmless mouse's squeak,
As at a threatening tongue?

Before she wed, she loved the solitude —
Her heart too full of dreams to feel alone:
But now the loneliness of widowhood
Weighs on her heart like stone.