The speaker returns to his friend’s house in the early morning, standing on a bleak, unlovely street. He remembers how his heart used to pound as he waited at the door for the friend’s hand to clasp his own. But that hand can never be held again. Unable to sleep, he has crept to the door like someone ashamed, only to find the house dark and empty. The friend is gone. From a distance, the ordinary sounds of life resume, indifferent to his loss. Through the drizzling rain, the blank, ghastly daylight breaks onto the bare street. The whole scene feels hollow and cold, capturing the raw loneliness of grief — the way the world outside goes on while the mourner feels stuck in a numb, gray emptiness.
In Memoriam A. H. H.: 7. Dark house, by which once more I s — Summary
Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more-- Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.