The speaker of the poem lives alone in an aging house and has come to accept loneliness as a strange kind of company. At night, a pale, silent ghost appears beside her. The ghost’s eyes and lips still seem full of longing, but her body cannot make contact with the world: she reaches for a lute, yet her hands pass through the strings. She can neither feel the music nor hear it. The speaker grieves for this distance, recognizing that the ghost is trapped in wanting something she can no longer touch. The final lines turn that sorrow inward, imagining a future night when someone might watch the speaker in the same way—as another lonely, unforgotten figure whose hands reach but cannot feel. The mood is quiet, eerie, and deeply sad, blending a strange comfort in solitude with an ache for closeness that survives even death.
I've Lived So Long — Summary
I've lived so long companionless In this old house bowed down with years, I've learned to welcome loneliness, Converse with dreams and sit with fears.
Often and often in the night When I have laid some dull book down, One comes between me and the light With terrible, unrustling gown.
Wistful as moonlight in the room Her face sways, luminous with fire Of eyes unsmothered by the tomb. Of lips remembering still desire.
And there beside the lute she stands With mournful little motionings, And stretches out her pulseless hands And only thrusts them through the strings.
No way to bring her longing near Who has no heart to beat and break, Nor any way that she can hear The sound her lost touch can not make.
Oh who will sit here wondering Some other night and watch me steal Close to an unforgotten thing With hands that reach but do not feel?